


The Feather and The Heart

by Some_Jewels_In_Your_Skull



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Burn..., Drama, Endgame, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Heavy Angst, Seriously..., Slow Burn, Slow..., Surprises!, lots of characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 15:57:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 134,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7624840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Jewels_In_Your_Skull/pseuds/Some_Jewels_In_Your_Skull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*This is my very first fan fiction post so please, bear with me as I navigate through tags, summaries, etc.  </p><p>*This fic takes place after S6 GOT finale BUT I am combining elements of both the show and the books.</p><p>*This story imagines how it will end for Jaime & Brienne...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Dreams and Dragons

“I’ve brought more wood, ser.”

Jaime Lannister barely lifted his eyes to the urchin carrying a bundle of kindling for the fire guttering weakly through the gloom of his private chamber.  Now that the Stark words were made true and the dragons not far from the shores, most of the logs went to feed the blazing fire of the only one who mattered in King’s Landing while the rest froze or nearly at the pleasure of their gracious Queen.

The boy set the sticks by the sooty hearth.  “Will you be needin’ anything else, milord?”

“No, thank you, that will be all.”  Jaime continued poring over the dusty book on his desk, pages crackling with each turn, wishing to the gods he studied more seriously the histories and follies and triumphs of siege-craft instead of spending all his time at swords.   His reading had never been good, the prospect of running out of time and burning in dragonfire making it worse.  Jaime looked up from the ancient, thick tome of forgotten Maester Olwyn, willing his eyes to strengthen, read better, faster, find the answer to saving the city from becoming another smoldering ruin, another Valyria, but all he could do was scrub his hand over his beard and look at the snow gathering along the ledge of his closed window.  He turned his head.  The boy was still there.

“Are you hungry?”  

The urchin nodded.  

Jaime waved his golden hand to the platter of uneaten food on his dining table.  If a good fire was scarce, good food was even harder to find but at least as the Queen’s brother and the Lord of Casterly Rock, he ate better than the rest of King’s Landing.  The boy ran to the table, digging his grimy hand inside the pie, scooping up gray strings of meat and clumps of grayer turnips.

“You may use my fork, boy.”

“’Ands are better, milord.” 

Jaime chuckled.  “Or at least more fun.”  He was rewarded with a greasy smile.  Tommen’s trusting face swam before his eyes and Jaime nipped his flesh hand, nipping away the memory.

“What you readin’, milord?”

Jamie sighed.  “I wish to gods I knew.  I’ve read so much these past weeks, I don’t even know what I’m reading anymore.  Can you read?”  

The boy just looked at him, smacking his lips over the meal in his mouth.

“Well, you will learn one day.  It’s good to know how to read.”   _Maybe you will_ … _if you aren’t fed to a dragon…_

“Why?”

“So you can learn things.  So no one can trick you.”   _Oh, Tommen…_

“You don’t need readin’ for all that.”

Jaime chuckled again, realizing it was the second time in a minute he’d laughed in what felt like years.  “True.  You have a wit about you.  If there was time enough, I’d make you my squire.  What’s your name, boy?”  

The boy suddenly looked as serious as The Father in a septon’s hymnal.

“No one.”

Jaime smiled.  “Well your secret is safe with me, No One.  I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with the kitchens.”

The boy returned his smile.  “Thank you, ser.  And I can tell you the answers you’re lookin’ for, milord.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes, squirming slightly in his seat.  “What do you mean?”

“About the dragons.”

“How do you know---“

“That’s what everyone talks about, ser.  How will we defeat the dragons.”

Jaime relaxed with another sigh.  “Yes.  That is the most pressing concern on everyone’s mind still left in this wretched city.  So tell me, No One.  What is the answer?”

“You don’t.  Open the gates.  Lay down your sword.  Beg for her mercy.”

Tears sprang, unbidden, to Jaime’s eyes at the honesty and trust of the boy’s words.  They reminded him of someone so far away, she might as well be dead.  For a breath, Jaime and the boy locked eyes and he dashed away a tear with the heel of his calloused hand.  “I can’t, son,” Jaime sniffed.  “That would be treason.”

If the boy saw the tears, the reddening of his nose, he graciously ignored them.

“For you, maybe, milord.  For me that would mean life.”

Jaime smiled and said, “You are wise beyond your small years, No One.  How old are you, anyway?”  

The boy shrugged his narrow shoulders and munched on the hard crust of black bread.

“So, ser, now that you know the answer to saving the city, will you tell me a story?”

“From these books?  You would die from boredom before the dragon queen even landed.”

“No.  Another.”

“Well, I have been in many battles.  And tourneys.  And melees.  And I remember stories of brave knights and ladies, children like that sort of story, yes?  Have you heard of Ser Antonelle the Elegant?  Not very well known but I’ve always loved--“

“Tell me about your dream.”

Jaime sat upright, his spine shocked into lifting.  “What dream?”

“The dream you had when you left Harrenhal.  The dream about Lady Brienne.  You told her you dreamed of her.  But you never told her what you saw.”

Fear snaked around Jaime’s throat. He gripped the edge of his desk, feeling the wood bite into his hand, his voice so low he could hear the snow pelting across the window, softly pinging the panes of glass.   “How do you know this?  Who sent you?  Is she… Who are you?”

The boy gave no answer.

“Who are you!"

The boy answered quietly.  “I told you.  I am The Waif.  The Baker.  The Old Man.  The Old Woman.  The Serving Girl.  The Stable Boy.  The Captain.  The Whore.  The Urchin.  Arya Stark.  No One.”

Jaime’s mind grabbed hold of the one name he knew, heard before.  “Arya Stark?  Of Winterfell?”

The boy nodded.

Jaime Lannister could not believe, would not believe that standing before him, the small boy with an uneven mop of bright red curls, a constellation of brown freckles scattering over his pug nose, was Arya Stark of the Starks of Winterfell.

“No, no, no,” he said shaking his head, his golden hand clanking across his desk, shaking with fear, “it’s not possible.  Arya Stark is gone.”

“So are dragons.  And yet, here I am.”

To prove the words, the boy changed into the daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark right before Jaime’s astonished eyes---green eyes melting to gray, russet deepening to dark hair, heart shaped chin lengthening to a long face with less the girl she had been and more the woman she was becoming---then just as quickly, her face shifted once more into that of the ruddy little boy’s, her body shrinking with young age.

Jaime did not know what he wanted more: to pass out, unconscious, into a peace of blackness or retch up the few bites of his supper---or run.  Never in his life had he seen such devilry. Never.  He stood on wobbling legs, lurched around the heft of his desk and he told the boy so.

“What devilry is this?” he whispered.  “Who are you?”

“I told you.”

“It isn’t possible…Arya Stark is…”

“What?  Dead?”  Green eyes, not unlike his own, peered out at him from the boy’s face.

“Yes.  Dead.  It was…assumed.  She was never found…we all thought…”

“You all thought wrong.  And, besides, what do the Ironborn say?  ‘What is dead may never die.’  That was always my second favorite saying, after “Winter is coming.’ Both are true, you know.  I am dead and yet I live.  And winter, Kingslayer, is here.”

Fear lanced through Jaime, nearly sickening him.  Never had he felt such fear.  Not now, with the threat of doom and ash coming. Not when he was captured by Robb Stark and thought he would hang.  Not when he was imprisoned in the dark, dank belly of Riverrun, wrapping his mind in fair memories of Cersei, a ward against the whispering shadows.  Not when he heard the bells tolling deeply throughout the Keep, alarming and alerting the sleeping world to awaken, for Tywin Lannister was dead, the Imp fled.  Not even when he jumped into that pit to save the wench, the bleeding stump of his missing hand throbbing with searing, burning pain. He was too afraid to even reach for his sword, for in a flash of certainty, like the blade through his wrist, he knew, if this … _child_ … wanted him dead, he would be dead, and nothing could stop it from happening.  He swallowed thickly, pushing down his urge to scream.

“Why are you here?  What do you want?”

“To cross the last two names off my list.”

Dread pooled around Jaime’s heart and he thought it would stop altogether.  “What names?” he forced himself to ask.

“The Mountain.  And Cersei Lannister.”

“For what?”

The boy smiled crookedly, all childish innocence bundled into his sweet face.  “What we all should want, Kingslayer.  To kill them.” 

Jaime dropped to one knee, uncertain as to how he still stood.  He did not know if the relief flooding through him was because the boy did not say his name---or because he said the names of the two greatest monsters in Westeros.   He knew it now, knew it to be true.  He looked at the boy.  And he looked at Arya Stark.  And he looked at The Cobbler.  And looked into what for him were the green eyes of The Stranger. And he knew, as he struggled to breathe, his breath coming in shallow huffs to his lungs, that if anyone could kill the Mountain or Cersei, it was this fey creature standing before him now.  But... _gods, be good_...if Arya Stark killed them---killed _her_ \---then that meant _he_ wouldn’t have to break yet another oath on his long, lonely road of broken oaths and lives.  Yet he was still a knight, still a Lannister.  And once, he loved her, loved her with all his heart.  Shame flickered through him.  

“Please. I beg you...little...Lady…Arya. Cersei is my queen, my sister and---“

“Your lover.”

“Yes.”

“Say it, Kingslayer.”  He looks at this boy, this creature.

“My lover.  And---“

“The mother of your dead children.”  He did not wait for him to tell him to repeat the words.

“The mother of my dead children.”

“And the reason Bran lost his legs.”   _I am dead.  I will die mad as Aerys.  That will be my punishment…_

“And the reason Bran lost his legs.”

“Is she still your lover?  Do you still love her?”  

Jaime knew as surely as wildfire burns that this boy would sense any lie.  And now at the end of his life, it wasn’t needed anyway.

“No.  I have not loved Cersei for a long, long time.”  

The child smiled. “Since Harrenhal.”  It was not a question. “Since you jumped in that bear pit to save Lady Brienne.”  Jaime found he had no words but only the widening of his eyes for his answer. “Do you love  _her_?  Lady Brienne?”  

Jaime lost the strength of his bent leg, sending his other knee crunching into the rushes on the floor.

“Always.”

“Good.  When this is over, make your way to Winterfell.  She waits for you there.”  The boy turned to leave.

“But she…I…I am a Lannister.   _Jaime_  Lannister.  I cannot just walk into the North and declare my love for Lady Brienne, before your sister and Jon Snow---and expect to live.”

“You can.  And you will.  You will bend the knee.  You will pledge your sword.  The dragons are coming, Kingslayer.   And there is nowhere else for you to go.”  

Jaime scrambled to get up from the floor, his mind a torrent of fear and questions but his legs failed him.  He crawled on his knees toward the small boy, the boy at a height with Tyrion.

“How will you do it?”

“It will be done.”

“How will I know it was you?”

“You won’t and yet you will.”

“I know hidden passages…”

“I know them, too.”

“I could help you escape…”

“I do not need your help, Kingslayer.  But  _you_  need mine.”

“But why?  Why are you helping me?”  

The boy had his hand on the door’s brass handle.  He released it to turn around, facing Jaime, still on his knees.

“I did not know what I would find when I came for my names, I only knew that I would have them.  I hate your family for what you have done to mine.  But here  _you_  are---trying to save a city, trying to save people like The Boy.  You are covered in a love you do not deserve but the Lannisters are not the only ones who pay their debts.  And life should pay with life.”

“But---“

“Stay ready, Kingslayer.  Go north.  And remember: open the gates.” 

Jaime lowered his head, trying to steady his fear-tossed thoughts.  He closed his eyes, remembering he was a Lion and they only wolves and he snarled to his knees, “Is this some kind of trick, you daemon?  Are you in league with the dragons?  Would you feed us to your dogs?”  Finally, his hand felt for his sword.

But when he raised his eyes, the door was open, the boy gone.

 


	2. No One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Jaime does what needs doing and gets help from a friend...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay ready, Kingslayer...

Jaime Lannister waited for wails, shouts, tolling bells announcing his sister’s death.  

And waited. 

And waited.  

And waited.  

On the fifth day, he wondered if No One had abandoned his mission and now floated away on the human river of the King’s Road, the earth churned daily to a slippery brown slush by a thousand bare and poorly shod feet. He imagined No One as just another of the hundreds of frightened urchins, cooks and cobblers pouring through holes, cracks, running from evil and starvation and dragons in King’s Landing.  Even though Cersei ordered the gates closed, the small folk still slipped through the barricade.  He noticed more and more tasks left undone as more and more servants fled the Red Keep.  Cersei and Qyburn threatened the wisdom of fleeing with death by public flaying, declaring it treason to abandon the Queen and the city in Her Grace’s time of need.

“They are frightened, Cersei.”

“They are cravens, Jaime,” she snarled.

_No, I am a craven for letting a child do what I cannot..._

Jaime slept little since hearing tell of the last Targaryen coming with three grown dragons for the Iron Throne but now, he barely slept at all, dozing in a chair by his stingy fire, furs around his legs and chin, afraid to hear the screams of his dying twin, afraid his own name will be added to No One’s list.  

In the watery, winter sun of what is harder to pretend is daylight, he sat in the Small Council, made smaller by death and torture and disappearance, and voiced his opinions of how to defeat their foe.  He sat there, looking at Cersei and Qyburn and silently implored, beseeched whatever god who still cared about his treasonous heart that today be Cersei’s and The Mountain’s last day of terror.  Jaime turned his eyes, not his head, to hear Qyburn speak of grumbling soldiers and the price they need pay for their grumbles, thinking,  _But not this one, which ever one of you seven bastards is still listening, no, not this one…this one is mine…_

On the sixth day, while standing in the training yard, hearing Addam Marband’s conflicting reports of how soon Danaerys would land her armada, Jaime Lannister saw Qyburn walking quickly towards him and knew, at last, they were dead.

*********************************************************

 “I can…I can go in your stead, Jaime.”

After ordering the yard cleared, Qyburn stood off to the side, a respectable distance, but Jaime knew he heard every word.

“I know you…loved her.  You will not…you will not wish to see her like this.”

_Oh, my dear Addam…this is exactly as I wish to see her…_

“No,” said Jaime, squaring his broad, armored shoulders, “she was my sister, my twin and I will not abandon her now.”  The lie came so easy to his lips.  He handed his helm to Addam and turned to the disgraced maester.  “Lord Qyburn, if you would?”

It was understood that as the head of the remaining Lannister guards, Ser Addam would accompany Jaime on this grim task.

The Master of Whisperers smiled at them and swept out a robed arm.  “This way, my lords.”  He stopped.  “And, Ser Jaime, I am sorry for the loss of your sweet sister, our good, gracious Queen.” 

 _No, you are not…not yet…but you will be…  “_ Thank you, Lord Qyburn.”

“Of course, my Lord.  But I fear you may find her…greatly changed. I tell you now to gird yourself.”

Jaime stifled a sob.  “Yes, yes.  Please, lead the way.”  Qyburn inclined his head.

As soon as the old man turned his back, leading them, Jaime dropped his mummer’s pose, his eyes as hard and hot as a Dornish stone.

Qyburn’s feet, almost hidden by the long folds of his maester’s robes, flashed quickly across the tiles of the floor.  Jaime kept his hand on the hilt of his sword as he followed him.  He tried to tamp down the blazing need to stab his steel through the torturer’s back then turn and run out the gates of the Keep.  He had no doubt No One has kept his word so Jaime would keep his own, to the gods.  But still, he must see Cersei’s ruin for himself.

They came to stop at the door of The Queen’s chambers and Qyburn fitted a huge key into the lock, turned the key and pushed the door open.  Jaime glanced at Qyburn’s hand. He noticed it was an ordinary hand, neither big nor too small, the fingers average length and width, the plain hand of a million other men. He remembered that hand tending him when he fainted with fever at Harrenhal… _but now… what horrors your hands have done…all in Cersei’s sweet name…if I had known, if I had known it would come to this, I would have slit your throat on the road…_

Jaime, Marbrand and Qyburn stood beyond the threshold into the chamber.  Jaime schooled his face in what he hoped was shock and misery.

“With so many fleeing,” said Qyburn softly, “I didn’t wish for further abandonment of our cause, my Lord, or more riots.  I came to find you as quickly as I could.”  Jaime said nothing, blinking back forced tears.

“How…how did you…discover them?” asked Ser Addam.  Jaime looked sharply at his friend, heard the quiver in his words, the voice breaking.    _Addam’s voice is always steady…my gods…he is afraid…_

“A loyal servant, Lord Marbrand.”

“Where is the…the servant…in case we have need…we have need to question him?”

Qyburn gave Ser Addam a smile, assuring, polite.  “Her.  And I assumed you did not wish for our enemies to know of our…predicament. So there is no need to question the woman.  She will tell no more tales, my Lord.”  Jaime did not trust himself to answer and only nodded as Qyburn stepped through the door.  Ser Addam hung back, reluctant to follow them into the dimness of the room.  Jaime clapped him on the shoulder, leaving him in the hall and followed Qyburn into the large chamber.  Qyburn had his back to them.  Jaime looked at his opening, thinking of the dead servants… _so many dead servants_ …their only crime to serve the Queen and her quiet, vicious Qyburn.  His gaze traveled up the maester’s hunched back, then down, to the horror spread around his feet.  

Gregor Clegane, The Mountain Who Rides, was slumped on his knees.   The point of his sword angled through his right eye, dripping black blood, like thick ink, through his helm and down the back of his blotchy, misshapen head.  In the corner of the room and behind the door, two broken Queensguard soldiers, in their small clothes, without their armor, lay dead or dying.  They were appointed last week by Qyburn himself and Jaime did not bother to learn their names, knowing they would be dead or fled in less time they held their new posts. It is Cersei Qyburn stood over and Jaime comes to stand next to him.  

The old man was right.  

She was changed.  

Cersei’s head was ripped off her long, ivory neck, dangling away from her body like a broken blossom on a stem. Her golden crown and short cap of golden hair lay cradled in red blood. Jaime could see the smooth muscles and jagged bones where her neck once attached to her delicate shoulders, shoulders he once loved to dust with fevered kisses. He saw the white tube of her spine and her green eyes, open, bloodshot with trauma, staring wide at nothing, at no one.  He stood and breathed and looked at his dead twin.  

Even with her head and neck detached from her lithe torso, her eyes a dull pink, she was still beautiful. 

Cersei.  His other half. 

He slowly, slowly shook his head.   _I loved you…I loved you…Father didn’t love you…you wouldn’t let Tyrion love you_ … ** _I_** _loved **you**!_... _was your crown worth it?...was our lie worth **this**?...You fool_ , he thinks,  _you beautiful, stupid fool_ …and he doesn’t know if it is her or himself he means.  

A whimper sounded behind him and he turned to see the stricken, drawn face of Addam Marbrand. Jaime's helm clattered to the floor. “What…what is this, this…this…my **_gods_** …my lord...” he barely whispered. 

 Jaime turned back to look at Cersei’s destroyed body.

_Justice?…mercy?...vengence?...how?...how?..._

Another whimper called out from the corner and Jaime left Marbrand to shiver where he stood. Jaime knelt before the man he bested in the training yard only a week before.  He remembered Qyburn raised the dying man to the Queensgsguard.  The man matched Jaime for build and strength but even fighting with his left hand, Jaime put him in the dirt, over and over again.  Jaime thought how pitiful the Queensguard now with men not even fit for the worst of the foot soliders let alone protecting the Queen of the Andals.  And now, Jaime is surprised the man still lived with Qyburn getting to him first.

“My Lord,” the man said around a mouth filled with blood, “…the Mountain.  He…he…the Queen…”  The soldier coughed, spurting blood onto Jaime’s gauntlet, his own bare leg.  “Sorry…Lord....,”  

Jaime could almost laugh at the absurdity of the apology.  “What happened here?”  He eyed him closely, slowly.  “Where is your armor?  Why are in your small clothes?”

The man flicked his drowsy eyes across the room, to his pile of discarded armor.  “The Queen…she…commanded…but…we...tried…slammed...Jerwin’s…head…me…here…,” His eyes drifted closed.  Jaime shook him.

“Who else was in the room with you?”

“No one…just…under…,” the soldier gasped, “…bed…” Jaime shook him again.  The man did not move.

Jaime stood, looked at the dead man, looked at the bed.  He crossed the room, knelt to peer under the broad wooden frame and saw nothing.  He stood slowly, pondering the man’s dying words then felt movement and glanced over his left shoulder.  A few feet away, Qyburn had crept up to stand behind him in silence.  Addam Marband still stood near the dead Queen, staring at her head, her spine, his trembling lips working soundlessly.

_Stay ready, Kingslayer._

Behind him, so close, so  _close_ , Qyburn spoke of quickness, of silence, of Jaime claiming the throne, of the possibility of salvaging The Mountain with another’s brain, it could work, I have done it before, yes, yes, but we must act, we must act, my Lord, we must act  _now_.  

_Stay ready, Kingslayer._

Jaime brushed his hand over the hilt of his sword.

“My Lord?  My King?  What do you command?  Say but a word and it is done.”  Qyburn’s voice was as gentle as his smile.  Jaime returned his smile over his shoulder, a soft lift of his mouth, nodding slightly as if he sadly understood.

But in the wait between two breaths, it was over.  Jaime pulled his sword from his scabbard, arching left with the lethal grace of a Water Dancer.  Qyburn’s head rolled across the room, his body crumpling to the floor like falling drapery.  The blood in the man’s neck kept pumping through his jugular as if his heart did not know it no longer had a head.

Addam groaned and dropped to his knees.  Jaime was there in an instant, stepping over Qyburn’s body, pulling him up, away from the Queen.

“Addam.  Addam.  Listen to me.”

Addam answered in mewling whimpers.

“Addam.  Listen.”

Addam found his voice, saying, whispering, “We are lost…it is over…we are lost…all is lost…we are lost…it is over…lost…I am lost…” rocking back and forth beneath Jaime’s gore covered glove, looking everywhere but at Jaime, at his eyes.  Jaime looked at him, Addam Marband, his father’s most daring commander, his oldest, staunchest friend.  He _knew_ Addam’s blood flowed colder than the Trident and knew that if he did not pull him back from the ruin of this day, they would all surely die.  Jamie called on their training as soldiers, the only thing he had left.  He threw his bloody sword to the floor.  He gripped Marband’s long copper hair and shook his head like a terrier with a rat.

**“ADDAM MARBRAND, I AM JAIME LANNISTER, THE LORD COMMANDER OF THE KINGSGUARD AND THE LANNISTER ARMY AND I COMMAND YOU TO STOP THIS MADNESS AND LISTEN TO ME NOW!  THIS IS A DIRECT ORDER!”**

Addam blinked, as if coming out of a trance.

“Addam.  Can you hear me?   **CAN YOU HEAR ME?”**

The man swallowed.  “Yes…Jaime…I can hear you…forgive me…”  His voice was still shaky and Jaime knew he walked the razor’s edge.

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Jaime, remembering his visit with No One six days past, remembering his own terror and his own faltering heart.  He slowly opened his fist and released Addam’s hair.  “It’s alright.  It’s alright.   _Listen_.  Listen to me, Addam.  Addam.  You have to help me, help _us_ , and the only way you can help us is if you _listen_.  We don’t have much time.  I can’t lose you.  Addam.  You’re all I have left. We have to save the city. We must save the city.  Are you _listening_?”   _I can’t lose him too…not Addam…not for this…_

“Yes.”  Addam’s voice sounded steadier.  He looked Jaime in the eye.  “To every word, my Lord.”

Jaime smiled, finally his tears real.  He exhaled, deeply.  “Good.”  He closed his eyes, exhaled again. 

“Good.”

 ***********************************************************************

In the end, Addam came back, pulled away from the ledge with the charge of saving King’s Landing. Then Jaime ordered him to flee to the safety of the Westerlands or Essos or the Summer Isles before the dragons’ wings threw deep shadows over the city.  At first, Addam had wanted to die fighting the enemy but Jaime absolutely forbade his friend to die for his sins, for Cersei’s sins, for the sins of Tywin Lannister and Walder Frey and Robert Baratheon and all the other monsters that tore the once Seven Kingdoms to nothing.

“I command you to live, Ser Addam.  That is a direct order.”  His friend smiled, weakly, but the fire was back in his blue eyes.

Then they got to work.

Jaime closed his own helm over the head of the man who had told them of the slaughter.  “Tell them my face is so brutalized, to see it would dishonor even _me_.”   Jaime almost laughed at his own cruel joke but the time for a jape was not now.  They no longer had means to make elaborate Queensguard armor so the man was dressed as a Lannister soldier with a simple white cloak. Jaime stripped off his golden armor, his lion-hilted dagger and piled it over the dead man.

“My Lord, why are they dressed only in their small clothes?” Marbrand wondered.  He helped Jaime quickly remove his greaves, breast plate.

“I don’t know,” said Jaime, narrowing his eyes, “but it will save us time in stripping them.  This could be Qyburn’s…work.”  They looked at the maester’s head.

“Perhaps you should wear his armor?” offered Ser Addam, nodding to the crimson huddle in the corner.

“No.  Still too distinctive.”  Jaime knew the small folk had no love for Lions and he would not be a target for their righteous anger.  Addam had orders to find his most loyal men, gather all the fuel he could find---save for the use of wildfire--- and burn the body of the dead soldier’s along with Cersei, Gregor and Qyburn.  Jaime knew it selfish when so many were cold but it could not be helped.

The body of the dead soldier, at a build with him, had to burn and his golden armor with it.

Once Addam understood, Jaime moved on.  “Do not give Danyaerys a reason to burn the city.  She will do so if she sees no other way.  Open the gates.   _All_ of the gates.  If there is time, open Qyburn’s cells.  Let anyone who would leave, _leave_.  Including _you_ , Marbrand.”  He turned from his task of trying to slam free all of the rubies encrusting the hilt of Widow’s Wail with the frozen edge of his golden hand.  Then he shoved the gleaming Valyrian steel into a shabby, scuffed scabbard.  Addam tore strips from a soldier's tunic then Jaime hastily wound the cloth around the hilt to further hide any remaining splendor.  The sword had been a constant at Cersei’s side since the terror of Baelor and Jaime had flipped her body over like a stained brothel mattress to get it and strap it onto his own hip.  Addam watched the deftness in which his liege lord secured it with one hand.  Then he quickly removed his own dagger from his belt and secured it around Jaime’s waist, replacing the golden, roaring lion with an ordinary, simple hilt. When Addam finished, Jaime faced his childhood friend for what was no doubt the last time.

“Thank you, Ser Addam.  It was fated that we crossed paths in the training yard when Qyburn came to us.  You have saved my life.  You have saved all of our lives.”

“What do you mean?  I was told that you were in the yard, waiting, and had need of me and any news.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes, feeling the hair rise along the nape of his neck.  “You were told by _whom_?”

Addam shrugged.  “I don’t rightly know.  He was dressed as a page.  Why?”

Jaime slowly shook his head.   _The Page…_   “It doesn’t matter.  What matters is you saved my life by coming here with me.  I am in your debt.  And you know our family motto.”

“Hear me roar?”  They both found a moment to smile.

“No,” said Jaime, “the other one.”

Addam dropped his smile first, concern hardening his mouth and eyes.  “Where will you go?”

“It is better that you don’t know.  Only know that where ever I am, I am happy.”

At this, they embraced in a great, rib-cracking hug then pulled away. Jaime pounded his left fist over Addam’s breast plate, over his friend’s heart; Addam punched both fists into Jaime’s chest, a ritual begun as young men to embolden each other’s courage, resolve of victory, of glory, a battle prayer.  Jaime looked at him.  Addam Marbrand was the man who had helped him win the bloodless siege of Riverrun and keep his vow to Catelyn Stark. In truth, he owed this man more than could ever be repaid.  Now, this prayer was their goodbye.

As they stepped back, Ser Addam narrowed his eyes, watching Jaime closely.  “I have often wondered if you have ever had what you  _needed,_ not just what you wanted _,_ my friend.   And you have lost much, more than I will ever know.  So if you go to find happiness now, in whatever time you have left, then Ser Jaime, consider the debt paid.”

Jaime’s face rippled at Addam’s words and his eyes burned.   He blinked away the tears. All he could do was nod, once, and stride from the room, from the only friend still left him in this city.  The only friend he had left, perhaps, in this dying world.

************************************************************************

 The filthy water sloshed around his ankles.

He walked through these tunnels so long ago with a newly freed Tyrion, a torch flaming and lighting his way in the fetid darkness then as it did now.

As soon as he left Addam Marbrand and the slaughterhouse of Cersei’s room, he found his way to this tunnel knowing that all he needed would be found in the dark. 

He was right.

He found a dead man, some poor soul left over from Qyburn’s experiments, and put on his tattered tunic.  He used stones to roughen his fine woolen breeches, wearing holes in them that he would certainly regret as he headed further north. But that couldn’t be helped.  He had to play the part of a poor man fleeing terror in King’s Landing.   Over the tunic and breeches, he put on a greasy, worn but warm cloak that Jaime found a few levels up.  No doubt the man died screaming for his mother, his lover, his gods, writhing in despair and pain and Jaime prayed the man’s spirit was at rest, now that his tormenter was dead.

_Keep it up with the prayers, you fool, and you’ll turn into that pious piece of shit, the High Sparrow…_

Jaime scowled in the darkness and kept moving. 

Down, down, down, up, down, down, up…he kept moving, moving, moving, his thoughts moving as he did, too.

_How?... **how**  did she…he...it…they…is it they?...do it?...do  **that** …_

_Under the bed?... **under the bed?**...who was under the bed?..._

_What if this is a trick?..._

_Why were they in their small clothes?..._

_What if she is down here now?...what if she wants to kill me?...what if **I**  am now on her wretched list?..._

Jaime almost froze at the thought but he could not stop.

_The dragons are coming, Kingslayer._

Jaime kept moving.

_And there is nowhere else for you to go._

His thoughts turned with his wild flight through the darkness, the air turning fouler and fouler with every step and soon Jaime took deep, gasping breaths through his mouth.  The stench coated the back of this throat.

He kept moving, deeper into the darkness, closer to the growing stench.

Then he saw why, where, the cause of the eye-watering smell.

They were stacked against the sides of the tunnel, against the stone walls, piled up near the exit like priceless cords of firewood. 

Dead bodies.

Jaime almost passed out from the rank, rotting stench.

The black air was made blacker with the swarms of a thousand, thousand flies. Jaime lowered his head and brandished the flame before him to ward off the attacking insects.  He wished for the untold time he had his other hand so he could stuff it in his mouth to keep from retching.  Instead, he willed his legs to run through this charnel house, no doubt Qyburn’s fell work. He tried to avert his eyes as he ran in a stumble, focusing only on the exit, on freedom but he saw them anyway.  All of them, stiff and dead and oozing to sludge, without heads.  

Without brains.

Jaime wished Qyburn alive only so he could kill him again.

He runs, runs, runs and suddenly, he gulped what passed for clean, fresh air in King’s Landing.  He is out of the tunnel. He is out of the Red Keep.  Some of the flies have followed but soon leave him, returning to their sweeter meat.  Jaime remembered how Cersei wanted to give Brienne to Qyburn, like a gift.  His stomach roiled at the memory and he retched on the side of a tree.  He retched and retched until nothing was left, tears streaming from his straining face.  When he was done, he found an edge of his fine woolen under tunic, the only thing he kept of Jaime Lannister’s, and used it to wipe his eyes and nose.  Then he screwed off this golden hand with a grunt, holding it steady between his thighs as he twisted it loose and moved just close enough to the putrid maw of the tunnel to throw it inside.  It landed with a dull thump. 

Jaime dropped the torch in an icy puddle and walked away, already planning how he will go north.  Planning to avoid large crowds, find a horse as soon as he can, never show his blade unless it is a matter of life or death, perfect his Ashemark accent.  He is grateful for the time spent with the wench in the Riverlands, grateful, for he learned to fish and hunt and live off what the land could give them.

_Gods…the wench… **my** wench…_

And his mind starts again, like it did so long ago in Riverrun, taking and shaping her into a reason, a mission to keep living, keep going, a talisman against the gathering shadows.

Jaime choked the delusion in its cradle.

The wench is not Cersei.  

The wench is real.   And Jaime will not begin whatever future he hoped to have with her by dishonoring the real woman underneath the blue armor.  There is no pedestal made to hold Brienne of Tarth.  They are equals in everything and so he will live for her, live for himself, balancing the scales with each living breath.

The streets surrounding the Red Keep were mostly empty.  So many feared the Red Keep, feared the place as evil: for many small folk entered through its broad gates but never returned---and many more had not forgotten nor forgiven the blasted ruin of Baelor. He stopped three times, once by a ditch to relieve himself then a few yards later, to dirty his face and hair with a clump of cold mud.  Then he kept moving.  Addam shoved a bag of whatever food was in Cersei’s chamber into his hand.   Jaime stopped again to squat, opening the bag with his hand and stump.  He reached inside, rummaging around the bag until he felt them beneath his fingers.  He put the apple in his pocket.  Then he moved again, munching on the heel of bread as he trekked north, to the Dragon’s Gate.  It was better than anything he tasted in months.  

He chews, thinks about his lover, now a shade. For a moment, just a moment, the bread tasted bitter _.  You always did keep the best for yourself, sweet sister…_  

As he headed toward the red gate, the crowded streets grew thicker with more bodies, more wagons, more shouts, more people and Jaime listened to their words all around him.  There were men, women, children, elders, the sick with the bloody flux in wheelbarrows---stained bloody rags beneath them---families, friends, all pressing for the great red gate, all talking of the same thing.  He realized as he listened that their  _words_  were the tolling bells, strangely silent, from the Red Keep.  “They are dead,” he heard over and over again, “that evil bitch and the sister-fucker and her butchers.  Dead, gods be praised!  Dead!”  

He smiled, thinking of his copper-haired friend.  

_May the Warrior protect you, wherever you are…_

Soon, Jaime joined the throng trickling slowly through the Dragon Gate.  In the twilight he saw the grate stood wide and open.  He snuck the apple from his pocket, nipped a bite then put it back, for later.  He stopped and turned to look behind him, there, at the great fortress on the hill.  A tendril of black smoke, like a curl, lifted into the purpling sky. Jaime burrowed deeper into the musty cloak, hoping to hide his face as he stared at the smoke.  He prays it is Cersei and The Mountain and Qyburn and himself in the ashes. 

A hand pulled on the back of his breeches and Jaime opened his mouth to scream.

He whipped around, hand on his knife and for a moment he wondered if he dropped dead, how quickly the small folk would strip him, then offer his naked, sister-fucking, king-slaying body to the dragons  …but the hand belonged to a filthy, crippled child sliding along on a makeshift cart.  

He dropped his hand from his knife, slowed his breathing. 

Jaime could not tell if the child was boy or girl but he saw hungry eyes linger on the place where he hid the apple. He reached inside and gave the wretch the last of the apple in his pocket.  He wonders, as he watched the child devour the fruit in gulps, he wonders…  But he moved on.  He knew it looked strange to stand and gawk at a crippled… _Urchin_. 

He turned, expecting to see the child gone in the wind like the smoke from the Keep.  But the child was still there.  The apple was gone and the child rolled along, begging others with pleading eyes for more food.  Jaime wondered if he would pass No One on the road, if he passed No One even now.

But he can’t worry about that now.  He keeps moving.  The scales kept him moving.  No one gave him a second glance as he walked through the gate.  And why would they?  He is just another traveler alone, hungry, afraid.  He is just like them.

No one.

 


	3. Across the Fields of Mourning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Jaime has a sort of homecoming...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you know it's time to go  
> Through the sleet and driving snow  
> Across the fields of mourning  
> Light in the distance
> 
> And you hunger for the time  
> Time to heal, desire, time  
> And your earth moves beneath  
> Your own dream landscape...
> 
> \--- "A Sort of Homecoming" by Paul David Hewson aka Bono

On the road, Jaime kept to himself. He planned to avoid large towns like Maidenpool and Fairmarket; by-passing the strong holds of Darry, Acorn Hall and of course, the Twins and Riverrun, for even with his bright hair caked in mud, he did not want to chance being recognized.  He only gave a name and former occupation---Marqus, the woodcutter, holding up his stump---when necessary: and it was only necessary when he failed to find a lesser path or trail taking him north.  Jaime much preferred those quiet trails through the woods and hedges along the God’s Eye river for they led him away from sharp eyes and prying questions.  

But, though these empty paths felt safer from brigands and cutpurses, they gave him more time than he wanted to think, remember in walking silence.

On the third night since fleeing King’s Landing, Jaime slept fitfully on a lonely trail in the Crownlands.  He dreamed he was a boy again and did not fuck Cersei for the first time.  Instead, he dreamt he rebuffed her searching hands, pushed away her whispered enticements; dreamt he ignored the blush of pleasure creeping up between the valley of her pert, full breasts; shunned her taut, rosy nipples and refused to touch the swollen nub cresting her slick cunt, glistening, the lips flushed and open, her sheath clinging to his finger, dripping with desire for him, wet for him,  _only_  him---and for the first three seconds of consciousness, relief surged through Jaime for he thought his refusal real. Then he felt the pull of his throbbing cock and remembered why he was stiff and cold and sleeping on the freezing ground in the deep woods beside the rushing river.

Cersei was dead.  

The city had fallen.

And all because he had said, “Yes,” to her body with his own.

The cold and the shame grew more unbearable every night.  The shame he could do nothing to change but he knew he must do something about the cold and do it soon.  He was reluctant to light and keep a fire for fear of brigands.  But as he left behind the Crownlands and headed further north into the frost and sleet of the Riverlands, this would mean his death.  So, with vigilant eyes and ears, he lit a small, cheerful fire at night, sleeping with his left hand gripping the hilt of Widow’s Wail. Jaime jerked awake at the snap of any twig--- but mostly waking himself from bloody dreams of twisted necks and pink eyes and whimpers of Cersei’s name.  He would fall back asleep, it still too dark to begin his daily trek.  Soon his family swam up from the well of his dreams and he would see the stones covering Joff’s purple eyes, feel Myrcella stiff in his arms, see the broken body of Tommen, his baby boy, smell his father rotting, see the faded face of his mother.  Then the sun would spark a new day and Jaime would begin it all, again.  During his daily hikes, Jaime was tired from lack of restful sleep and dwindling food and roused himself awake with a start if he sat still too long in one place.  But,… _I suppose I should thank you seven bastards_ … he was not accosted on the road by broken men, only by dark dreams of his dead family. 

When he was in the company of others, he tried to keep his mind sharpened by always planning, thinking before he answered any questions, willed himself not to dream of anything that would make him cry out her name in his sleep.  He kept his eyes open for signs he might be set upon: discreet signals from eyes or hands or tight smiles that promised him safety but really meant harm. And he kept his ears open wide for any news of King’s Landing and the lands in which he entered.  He listened and learned most fled the small towns and barren fields for the safety of castles and keeps. 

But always, as he shared a camp, he was careful to ask each person if they were No One.  So far, the answer was “No,” with confused or narrowed-eyed glances.  But no matter the denials, Jaime could not shake away the certainty that someone, from somewhere watched him closely on this cold, dark journey.

At one camp near Duskendale, he listened to three men argue that the Dragon Queen landed her fleet in Blackwater Bay three or seven or twelve days after Jaime fled the city.  He overheard while scavenging for rotten apples in an abandoned orchard that the Dragon Queen found the gates open and the streets as quiet as a crypt.  In a small camp just east of the Stony Sept, he smiled at the wisdom of the small folk when a comely woman sat closer than necessary, leaning her full bosom against his arm. She told him that people were too afraid to return to King’s Landing, too afraid to gamble on the kind of queen the Mother of Dragons may be.  Instead, they chose to wait and let her show them how she meant to rule…as the woman had something to show Jaime. 

“It’s tight and wet and will keep you warm...”  Her breath was moist as she leaned forward to whisper these words in his ear, tickling the fine hair along the side of his neck.  Jaime declined her generous offer with a smile but she still tried to woo him with a flash beneath her skirts.  Jaime blinked as he looked at the wispy, auburn hair.   _No_ , he thought, willing his eyes to look away, _I prefer my cunts hairy, attached to fierce maidens and blonde…_   He was gone from that camp as soon as there was light enough to see. 

The next night, Jaime bedded down with three fellow travelers of an old man, a small boy and an old woman who was uncommonly spry as she set to preparing their meal--- yet looked the very picture of The Crone.

“No One?” Jaime whispered to her as she skinned what he planned to eat regardless and what he prayed was not a rat.

“What you call me?” she answered, with the point of her slimy knife.  Jaime did not know what she meant---yes or no---and decided not to investigate any further.  That was the night he volunteered as the watch of their small camp and thought long and deep about what the old man Tallon would later tell him.

 Before the three left him alone again on the road, he learned from the old man that three flotillas of the Dragon Queen’s fleet took Storm’s End and Dragonstone, and…Tarth.

“Tarth?”  
“Aye.  The Sapphire Isle.  You ever been there, you’d know why.  You ever been there, boy?”

Jaime said around a mouthful of charred creature, “I ‘avent.  But I met someone from there ‘long time ago.”

The man belched and wiped his greasy mouth on the back of his hand.  “Wells, if they’re still there, they’re dead, as like.  The old Lord died fightin’, didn’t want to surrender like them other lords and such.  When the folk saw that, it was a real fight, then.  Lots o’ Tarth people died.”  He eyed Jaime carefully.  “You alright, woodcutter?”

Jaime forced himself to swallow his food.  “Yes.  I’m fine.”

“Thought it might be the meat---“

“What you sayin’ bout my cookin’, Tallon?”

“Oh, go on, you!  You know you gave me the bubblin’ guts only tree days past!”

“Then next time, cook your own meat, you mangy stoat, and see if you on’t get more than a few skid marks in them dingy small clothes o’ yours!”

Tallon turned away from the woman with a “Bah!”  He fixed his glaring eyes on Jaime who blinked rapidly at the campfire.

“You sure you alright?” Tallon asked him quietly.

Jaime nodded slowly but couldn’t take his eyes from the flames.  “Who rules there, now?” His voice sounded flat and strange even to his own ears.

“The Dragon’s Imp rules all and the Westerlands as the High Paramount or some such.” Jaime could almost smile at the news. _Tyrion_ , he thought, still looking at the flames, _I always knew one day you would take the Rock. I just never knew you would take it with a Dragon..._

“They say the Queen was wroth when she ‘eard of the slaughter,” continued the old man.  “I ‘eard she flew herself from Dragonstone on the back of the black beast and burned the whole lot.”

Jaime looked at Tallon sharply then. “Who were them she burned?”

“Some bloody sellswords she hired to help take King’s Landing.  I ‘eard she promised them riches untold but the coffers were as empty as the city’s streets.  So the sellswords killed the Old Lord o’ Tarth, looking for them sapphires.  Too bad the bloody lot didn’t know about the waters and how that evil bitch beggared the realm.  But they did learn all about that dragon! ” Tallon laughed deeply, laughed himself to coughing.  When Jaime didn’t join in, he looked at him and asked, “You sure you alright, boy?”

“Oh, leave ‘em be!  He’s just tired, same as me!” spat the old woman.

But Tallon would not stop looking at him.

“Aye, I’m fine.  ‘Lot to think about, is all.”

Tallon sighed.  “Aye, that’s the truth.  But all that thinkin’ need only add up to one thing, boy: survivin.’  I admire the old Lord’s courage, I really do.  But me, I likes livin’.”

“Like you’ve ever added anything pass ten, you old, wet fart!” hissed The Crone.  Tallon moved off to trade salty words, leaving Jaime to feed sticks to the fire.  The small, quiet boy watched him. 

_Oh, my wench…my poor wench...they have torn out your heart…_

Soon, Tallon returned to Jaime’s side, red-faced and chastened, eager to be paid with any news of his travels.  But Jaime’s quiet, dark thoughts already claimed him. When it was clear Jaime had nothing to give, Tallon fell into a sullen silence and crept off near the bedroll of the old woman. Jaime heard them arguing in the darkness.  He watched the quiet boy unfurl his bedroll and fall down on the other side of the fire.  His wide, dark eyes looked at him across the flames.

“Are  _you_  No One?” Jaime whispered to the boy.

The boy looked up from the pillow of his arm, confusion knitting his brow.  Then he shrugged and shook his head.  Jaime returned his eyes to the camp fire.  After some time, he saw the boy was asleep on the hard, cold ground and he brought his knees to his chest.  He crossed his arms and rested them on top of their peaks.  Maybe he should go to Tarth, to see if she returned…but he knew his wench, knew that she stayed in Winterfell with the Wolves because she is Brienne and even with The Evenstar’s death, her sword belongs to Sansa.  He peered into the fire and listened to mumbles and snores, wishing in the darkness he could hold her as she cries.  He knows that right now,  _right now_  in the white waste of the north, his wench is crying.  So Jaime balanced the scales across the long leagues and cried with her. 

He must have fallen asleep for when he awakened, Tallon and The Crone and the boy were gone with the dim morning sun. 

Under his stump was a bedroll of his own. 

He smiled.

Jaime found a deep hedge, burrowed under its shadow.  He would sleep for a few hours before moving on.  Then he frowned, as he stretched out, his eyes popping wide.  … _I asked the woman and the boy…but I never asked Tallon…_

 

************************************************************

_…winter is coming…winter is coming…we knew it was coming…yes, it is here, now…we knew it was coming…we knew and we did nothing to prepare for it… and it is cold, yes, cold, cold…colder every day…colder than your secrets…colder than mine…will I never be warm again, Cersei?…is that your curse?...for me to die as cold as our lies?…I thought only you could make me warm…yes, your eyes, your mouth, your cunt…but the only thing colder is our arrogance...yes, our arrogant lust…do you see it, Cersei, we killed that one with it, yes, Cersei, look over there, bloated, in the ditch…we started a war with our lust...for what?...for this?...so we could bury our babies?...so we could turn on each other?...so we could tear the realm apart…I rejoice that you are dead, I do, every minute my eyes see what we have done…I was happy to see you broken and dead…I will never forget how you looked…yes, never…a crown of blood…green eyes pink…forgive me for wanting you dead …or don’t…you won’t…as I will never forgive you…I only wish I was dead, too…so let us keep each other company, yes, until I die?...for I will die…I will, yes…for when I chose your death, I chose mine…but I had to choose…I had to choose, Cersei…please forgive me…but you won’t…will you?...I chose the people…the people, the orphans…orphans of love, of life, of limbs stolen from them…orphans, we made them orphans…orphans of fertile lands and hope and peace…orphans of justice…orphans of mercy…we made them orphans of food and shelter and safety…I was sworn to protect them…but I destroyed, yes, for you, for you…so for once, I chose them, do you see, please see, because once I chose us, only us and all it brought us, brought them was death…I chose life, their lives, and let her kill you…I let her kill you…yes, I prayed she would kill you… I let her kill you so I could give back…something, sweet Cersei, anything of what we took…but never fear, sweet sister, sweet Cersei, never fear…my own justice will come for me…oh, yes…it will come as a noose or a sword or my own useless hand…so please, please keep me company until I die…for a shade is better than nothing…and there are fewer and fewer people on the road…_

_************************************************************_

 

Jaime stumbled through the heart of the Riverlands, the land where he lost his greatest gift. He cradled the stump as if it still hurt but the pain he felt now was deeper inside.  Jaime looked at the blasted, blackened earth left as a grim lesson to those who slighted Tywin Lannister.   Jaime looked at the remnants of his father’s wrath, looked at the Old Lion’s killing work finished by the rapists and murderers of the Brave Companions.  Even with the Starks defeated, Cersei did nothing to protect these people, choosing instead to punish them for rallying around the Young Wolf.  She smiled at leaving them to the mercy of plunderers. Jaime looked at the ruin of their mercy all around him, on and on to the black horizon.  They had paid with their lives and they were still paying because years ago, Robb Stark brought his army south.  Jaime remembered the Young Wolf, the brilliant battle strategist and tactician who captured him in the Whispering Wood---and gambled on breaking his word to the spiteful Freys.  The boy lost his gamble and paid with his life and the life of his lady mother.  Tywin’s hand was covered in their blood, too, although he did not hold the knife.  His father thought he ended the war but Cersei forgave nothing. Now salted fields that should feed the kingdoms were as black and evil as his dreams.  Jaime’s blistered feet were on fire with each step and he felt the sharp stones poking through his thinning soles.  There were no horses to be found.  If Jaime found one now, he would eat it.  He almost gave a man Widow’s Wail for a bite of molded bread but the man took pity on him and split the loaf.  Whenever Jaime chose a spot to bed down, he prepared his camp to the gurgles of his shrinking belly.  He went to sleep every night mumbling to Cersei’s shade before sliding into his blood soaked nightmares, tossing on the bedroll to a distant voice crying, "Burn them, burn them all!"  It was as if the land, the home of Catelyn Stark, remembered his name and gave him no quarter, no peace, whenever his head touched the earth.  He awakened every gray morning with tears cutting paths down his cheeks, crying because the nightmares were real. 

Once, Jaime raided a falling down keep and cried with joy when he found a dusty jar of blackberry jam.  He did not care that he always hated the seeds.  He slurped the preserves then crouched over it on the floor, using his filthy hand as a spoon.  About thirty minutes later, he crawled into a grimy corner, rocking side to side, holding his cramping stomach.  His vomit was blacker than the Mountain’s blood.  Jaime knew he would die. 

He didn’t. 

But he was weaker. He found a length of thick, sturdy rope, frayed at the end.  He coiled it into his bag.

Though he was hungry, he would not die of thirst.  He was surrounded by water, in the Green Fork, in the snows.  But if he didn’t find food soon, he would die as he deserved.

Everywhere he looked, were reminders of what he deserved.  Broken keeps and towns that should hold hundreds were abandoned to darkness where there should be light.  Rotting brown and black fields and fields and fields left to murders of crows and gone to seed.  Jaime tried slashing at the black birds with his blade in hopes of a meal but they only mocked him, caws of laughter, flying out of his reach.  Then the birds chased him through the fields with their bright eyes and sharp beaks.  Jaime saw a few farms where the living barred the doors, boarded the windows, hoarding whatever it was they hoped to keep inside.  He ducked an arrow aimed at his head when he kept knocking on a farmer’s door.  He wanted to burn the house down, torch the wooden windows.  He wanted to cut through those hiding in the dark with his Valyrian steel as they ran from the flames.  But he knew it was fear that barred the doors and his hunger that wanted them dead.  Jaime wanted to shout at them, reveal he was the Golden Lion of Lannister who tried restoring justice and peace to these lands, forbidding his soldiers from murder, rape and plunder as he led an army to end the siege at Riverrun. 

But while true, that is a lie. 

He left them open to the winds of winter and murderers and war. 

He did not save them.  Like he did not save his own father, his own children. 

He killed them all in a small tavern’s bed, when he crawled between his sister's soft thighs.

 

************************************************************

Jaime was looking for the right tree.  He knew it had to be the right height for his feet to float above the ground, the right height for him since he had nothing on which to stand, to kick away, nor the strength to climb with one hand.  He decided after a long talk into the night with Cersei that today would be his last day.  These wastelands of their lovemaking would be the last thing he saw before darkness joined them again, forever.  Jaime stopped in the wood.  He cast his eyes about for the right tree on which to hang his noose when he saw it.   He thought this wood looked familiar… _perhaps a place we rested on the way to King’s Landing…_ but he did not expect to find the weirwood tree.  He stood yards away, taking in the wide, white wood, the weeping face.  Overhead, the red leaves rustled on a breath of wind.  He thought he would never come here again as a living man.  But he has returned to the tree.

His tree.  Where he dreamed of her. 

He narrowed his eyes and dropped the rope.  His hand coiled into a fist.   

And hatred, like a bright flare, burst aflame in his heart for the memory. 

Where is she? 

The traitorous, sullen bitch.  Why was she not here, with him, right now, with a flaming fucking sword in her big, meaty hands?  Did she mean to turn a lion into a wolf?  Is that why she chose to keep faith with that shrill wolf-bitch, Catelyn Stark, and her pack of wolf brats, even though the bitch was dead?  Didn’t the stupid wench know it was him that neededher more?   Where is she, with her mulish face and thick waist?  Where is she with her loyalty and wretched honor and oaths?  When he fell in the dream, she still stood, a bright star in the darkness surrounding them like a grave.  So where is she? Where is she? 

_Where is she?!..._

He takes off at a run toward the tree.

“You lied to me!” he screamed at the carved face.  “You lied!  You lied!  You lied!” and suddenly, Widow’s Wail is in his hand and he is hacking at the face, a face that has looked out on the world with sorrow for a thousand years.  He hacked and hacked and hacked, shouting, hacking, still crying, “You lied!” over and over again.

  _…where is she?!... where is she?!...where is she?!.._.

Suddenly, his days without food drive him to his knees.  His heavy sword slips from his hand.  Jaime Lannister hunched over on all fours at the foot of the great tree, wailing like a dying beast.

_I just want to die…make it stop…oh, gods…please…mercy…I just want to die…I am ready to die…I just want to die…_

“Please…mercy…mercy…MERCY!”

_I am waiting for you…the journey is long, so long, so long…and I wait for you, here, at the end of it all..._

His head snapped up and he stared at the vandalized face through a slimy mess of tears and slobber and snot.

“Brienne?!   ** _BRIENNE?!_** ”

One eye, the only eye left, cried a single tear of red sap, like blood, staring back at him.

In the distance, as if from behind, someone screamed.

Jaime whipped his head toward the sound. 

He snatched up his sword and ran.

 


	4. Good Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Jaime does his best...or so he believes...for good intentions litter the long road to Perdition...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not claim to camp nor hunt so I did my best with the research at hand. In short, please forgive my ignorance!

Jaime’s heart pounded in time with the flash of his running feet. 

_Please, gods, please let me save her, let me save her in time, please, you **bastards** , have mercy, just once, just  **once** , have mercy…_

The screaming stopped, suddenly, choked off into silence. 

Jaime slowed his pace, quieted his ragged breathing to listen. His huffing breath steamed in the cold air of the wood.  He crouched with his sword at the ready and advanced to what he believed the center of the sound.  Jaime could still hear the scream,  _feel_  it burning his heart even in silence, for the keening sound had pierced through him, stoking his fear like a fire.  _Scream, wench,_  he thought _, scream again, please, let me know you yet live, scream, **scream** …_    He swept in a low circle, still listening, watching all angles.  Then just ahead of him, he heard a muffled cry and what sounded like a slap against bare skin.  Jaime blinked back tears of relief.  He feared he was too late.  But it seemed his fear gave him some accuracy in his direction and he saw them as he crept forward. Jaime stopped and hid behind the trunk of a stout tree.

Not Brienne.  Two girls.  Both small.  One smaller.  Three men. One horse, tied to a branch.   One of the men slapped the smaller girl across the face with his broad hand, yelling at her to stop crying, but of course, he is hitting her, hurting her, and she cannot stop her tears.  One man groped the bigger girl through her clothes, yanking back her mousy brown hair and her head with it, laughing roughly about how she will like each of them shoving a fat cock in her at once.  The last man had his hand around the girl’s scrawny throat and when he squeezed, the girl gagged, eyes bulging as her skin turned a dull blue.  He laughed and released her.  The girl took gulping breaths. 

“Do it again,” the man holding her hair goaded, his voice low, thickened with lust.  “She’ll like that when we fuck her.  Won't you, girl?”  He gave her hair another yank.

“No, please-,” the girl begged but the man slapped her hard across the mouth before he reached with both hands to squeeze her throat.

The horse wickered.  Jaime could see the sharp outlines of the mare’s ribs when she breathed.   The slapping and screaming made the rickety beast nervous.  The horse whined and tried scuttling back from the sounds. 

Jaime forgot that he has not battled against a foe for months.  Jaime forgot his burning hunger and cold and sorrow for all he has ever done for love.  Jaime forgot about the lying tree and his wrath.  He forgot his grievance against the wench and he knew, that right now, she would want him to forget her.  Jaime even forgot that he deserved to die.  The only thing he remembered is the blasted scale, tipping, tipping, somewhere in the universe.  A deep breath filled his chest.

_Stay ready, Kingslayer…_

He must be there before they know he was upon them. 

Jaime ran into the clearing and unleashed his fury.

 ******************************************************

 

 

“Where are we _going?_   What should we do with the horse?  Do you think we should we take turns riding her?”  The girl snorted and looked down at Jaime from the back of the mount.  “Although I don’t think it can carry even us for much longer.  But we don’t weigh much, do we, baby?”  She kissed the whimpering child on the top of her matted curls. The little girl rode in front of the older girl, clutching the horse's coarse mane in her small, stubby hands.  Jaime looked up at the girls through the corner of his eye.  The older girl looked at him, waiting.   _Don’t weigh much, hmm, girl?...oh, how the gods love their endless fucking japes…tipping, tipping, always tipping…_ He had made the girl wait for a few minutes in the blood splattered clearing, her skinny body shaking in the aftermath of his deadly work.  Jaime told the girl to wait while he ran back to the godswood to grab his rope and bag. 

“Collect your wits, quickly, girl, and take anything of value off of these dead rapers while I’m gone, any clothing, furs, blankets, knives, food, _anything_ that may save your life.  Do you hear me, child?”  He stood from kneeling to clean his sword on the cloak of a dead man.

The girl said nothing, only stared at the three headless bodies.  The baby cried and clutched at the older girl’s breeches.

Jaime stepped over a dead body and snatched her skinny face to meet his eyes.

“Girl, do you hear me?” he hissed.

“Y-y-e-e-e-s-s-s,” she stammered, tears leaking from under her trembling lashes.

“Then set to work.  _Now_.  I will only be gone but a moment.”  Jaime gentled his voice but held her chin firmly.  When she nodded, he let go and ran back to the godswood.

When he returned to the ancient wood, his eyes glanced at the ruined face of the weirwood tree.  Jaime’s anger threatened to boil over again.  The voice belonged not to Brienne, but to some poor, starving wretches roaming this wasteland alone.  But now, at least, the worthless gods answered _one_ of his prayers.  There was a horse.  Jaime cursed himself for planning to abandon these orphaned children to the fate of the crossroads. But it could not be helped.  He stuffed the rope back into his bag and never looked back.  When he returned, he was glad to see the girl had set to her task.  She held up a bulging bag to show him.

“You came back.”  The wretch eyed his blade.

“I said I would, girl.”  Convinced they were safe, he shoved his sword back inside the ratty scabbard.

She blinked and nodded.  “Well, not much food but I found three knives, some pans, some furs, two waxed cotton tents and other things. I even found some woolen things for you, ser.”

“I’m no  _ser,_  girl,” he scowled.

She looked at him for a long moment then nodded.

Jaime settled the girls on the horse with the bags and began to lead the small beast. He planned to find a safe place for the girls to stay, a stronghold, a keep, while he returned to the road alone, deciding to live or die.  Cersei’s beautiful face swam up from his thoughts, mocking his intentions.   _A safe place, Jaime?_    _And where is that, sweet brother?..._ Her head was thrown back in ringing laughter.  He ground his teeth against the vision then set to steadily leading the beast away from his bloody punishment in the clearing and the mangled tree in the godswood and back along the lesser trails of the road, heading north once more to Winterfell.  Now that he was calmer, Jaime could see the girls more clearly.  The smaller girl had soft, chubby cheeks, red with the cold and slapping, which told Jaime someone still fed her regularly.  A trail of snot dried in flakes from her nose and her soft, brown eyes were wet with tears.  The hood of her cloak kept slipping off her head and Jaime could see the thick brown curls twined around themselves in knots.  They must be combed, and soon, or risk being cut out.  The older girl was all spindly arms and legs and she looked like it had been ages, if ever, since she tasted a proper meal.  The dull, brown hair peeking from under a woolen cap looked thin and brittle as it grazed her stooped shoulders.  Her long, skinny throat wore a necklace of purpling bruises from where the raper choked her.  The skin beneath her wind burnt cheeks was sallow and lined in grime.  Her flat nose leaned to the left, as if once broken.  When she licked or worried her lips, puffy and split from the choker’s slaps, Jaime saw that some of her teeth were missing and the ones she kept were mostly small and blackened with decay.  She appeared barely dressed for the wintery weather, with just a thin cloak and tunic and a bit of rope holding up her sliding breeches.  But when Jaime returned from the godswood, he helped her remove a dead man’s cloak, the boiled wool hanging past her knobbed knees.  The thick cloak still had some streaks of the man’s blood in the folds.  The girl did not seem to mind.  Swaying on the back of the horse, she even wrapped it around the baby for added warmth.  The only thing of real value she had were the sturdy boots on her small feet.   _And her eyes_ , thought Jaime,  _her quick, brown eyes, like a squirrel’s, eyes that see everything…I must be cautious…_

“ _Hey!_ ” she called down to him, leaning slightly forward.  Jaime kept walking and leading the horse.  The horse whinnied but didn’t change her gait.  “Did you hear what I said?  Where are we going?” When he didn’t answer she asked, “Well, then, what should we do with the horse?”

Jaime _knew_ what he should do with the horse.  He knew he should hop on the back of the beast, put his heels in her flanks and leave the girls where they were standing.  All he had to do was swing up, over and don’t turn around.  Instead, he stopped. He took in the wide ring of dry earth and wood. A good place to camp. Jaime cursed himself as the biggest fool in all of Westeros.

“Why are we stopping?” the girl asked.  Her darting eyes narrowed warily at him.  _Because I’m a fool, girl…_ “Climb down from the horse with some of the bags, pick her up and stand back.”  Jaime held the baby in the crook of his right arm while the girl slid from the horse.  The baby began to cry and wriggle as soon as he touched her and he quickly handed her to the older girl. He told the girl to hold the horse while he removed the heaviest of the bags. When he was finished, he grabbed the reins and told the girl to stand back.  The girl moved back a few yards, slinging the baby around a skinny hip.  He thought of Honor as he cooed softly and rubbed the frail horse across her muzzle with the stump of his right arm. 

The horse snuggled into the curve of his left hand, the warm gust from her nostrils moist in the cold of the day.  He rubbed his forehead against hers, telling her how pretty, how sweet, what a beauty.  Jaime wished he carried a tart apple for the sweet thing so he could feel her strong teeth nipping across his palm. "I am sorry, my love," he whispered into her flicking ears, "so sorry, pretty girl, so sorry."  The horse looked at him with big, trusting eyes, brown and full and wide. The girl had the truth of it. The half-starved beast could not carry them---carry him---as far as needed. He stepped back and took a deep breath…

And pulled Widow’s Wail from his sheath, leaning his weight to drive the blade through the beast’s eye, her brain, the point of the sword jutting out her skull; then just as quickly, he pulled it back. He was so quick with his work and the blade so sharp, the horse never cried as it thudded to the ground.  Some of the horse’s pumping blood spurted on Jaime’s hand and arm.    He turned to face the girls.  The older girl pressed the baby’s head into her shoulder as the child screamed.  The older girl looked at him, her eyes and mouth widened with horror.  “What the  _fuck_  did you do that for?”

Jaime ignored her question.  He felt queasy but already his stomach readied for the meat and began to burble with hunger.  He pulled out his dagger and handed it handle first to the girl. She moved back, as if to run, but Jaime only looked at her.

“I’m not going to kill you, stupid girl.  Take the damned knife.”  It took her a moment to decide but she took the dagger in a shaking hand and held the baby closer.  “Build a fire.  Melt some snow in all of the pans and when it begins to boil, clean that knife and any others.  Make sure the water is _boiling_ , I need it  _clean_.  And I need the cleanest rags you can find.  When that’s done, keep the fire going.  And keep a watch for any brigands.”  The girl only looked at him.  “Are you hungry, girl?” he snapped.  She nodded as the baby clutched her shoulders.  “Then that’s supper,” he snarled, angling his head toward the horse.  “Now, _go_.”  The girl turned to go about her task, the child still clinging to her and crying.  “And quiet that child!”  She turned to glare at him but he heard her shushing the baby as she moved outside the camp and scooped snow into the pans.

Jaime turned to examine the small, scrawny horse.  He struggled to remember what his lord father said about butchering a deer for the tastiest meat.  But Jaime did not care about taste.  This beast was not meant to impress the delicate tongues of the high lords and ladies feasting with the Warden of the West.   _No,_  Jaime thought,  _I need worry only about survival._   By the time the girl handed him a clean knife, rags and hot water, Jaime decided to skin and butcher the horse with a mind toward quickness and for getting the most meat.  The older girl quickly built up the fire and soon Jaime had a steady supply of clean water and rags within a hand’s reach.  Jaime could also see the girl scanned through the trees with her sharp eyes and ears while she cared for the baby and made a crude tent.  But the little girl would not stop crying and Jaime tried to ignore her grating, piercing bawl.  Cersei always kept their children locked away in the nursery, their squalling and tantrums far from the queen’s chambers.  Jaime was unused to the baby’s near constant wailing and her cries made him edgy and tense.

“Can’t you make her _quiet?_ ” he snapped at the older girl.  “She will wake the whole Riverlands with her thrice-damned yowling!”

The older girl glared at him,her gaze sharper than Widow’s Wail.  “Have you never cared for a babe?  She doesn’t understand what’s going on, you _lackwit_.  She only knows that she’s been hurt, seen you chop off the head of three men and killed a horse.  She’s _frightened_.  And when babes are scared, they _cry_.” Jaime forgot how he must look to the babe, to the girl. When he killed those men, hot blood splattered across his face and now he was covered in horse’s blood, almost to his elbow. _I must look a bloodthirsty daemon from the hottest of the Seven Hells_ , he thought _._ He whipped back around, having nothing to say and continued butchering the horse.

  The little girl cried and continued to cry as Jaime cut the horse into rough chunks and strips of bloody meat, cried while the older girl gathered wood and fed the fire.  She cried and clung to the older girl as Jaime charred the first of the meat over the flame.  But as the smell began to flavor the air, the little girl seemed to understand what her stomach must have told her and only cried when Jaime glanced in her direction.  Instead, he fixed his tired eyes on the flames, watching as the meat browned.  He was sure all of Westeros could hear his stomach growl. 

“You never asked me my name.”

Jaime looked up from the fire and into the eyes of the older girl.  He dropped his gaze back to the meat, recalling his plan, his intention to be rid of them soon.  “No, I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

He met her eyes again.  “Because I don’t care.”  It was the first time since fleeing King’s Landing that he did not fear meeting No One around a campfire.  He would never forget the blood, the slaughter in Cersei’s room.  Jaime would never forget what No One did to the Queen and the Mountain and two soldiers--- and what No One did to their necks, their brains, their bodies. No One made Jaime’s work in the clearing seem but a child’s game of Monsters-And-Maidens.  When he crashed through the trees, he had seen the fear in the girls’ eyes, smelled it coming off their bodies, heard it in their screams and pleas.  No, No One did not sit across from him now, waiting for a pan of horsemeat to cook.  Jaime knew Arya Stark _could_ kill, _would_ kill the men who tried to rape her more surely than Jaime did himself.

“Well,” the girl continued, through the silence, “since you didn’t ask my name and don’t _care_ anyway, I’ll tell you.  My name’s Weasel.”

Jaime stopped his dagger from stabbing and flipping the meat to cook on the other side.  His eyes narrowed, his mouth curling in disgust.  “ _Truly?_ ” he asked.

She nodded.

“That’s a terrible name.”

She lifted her scrawny shoulder in a shrug.  “What’s yours?”

“Marqus.”

“Marqus,” she repeated.  “How’d you lose your hand, _Marqus?_ ”  Something in her voice made him flinch though her battered face stared blankly across the flames.

“Woodcutter,” was all he said.

“Truly?” she asked.

He narrowed his eyes.  “Aye, girl. As I _said_.”  The words hissed through his clenched teeth.

She blinked at him then chuckled.  “Well, you weren’t a very _good_ one, now were you?”

It was his turn to shrug though he still scowled.  “Is that your sister?” he asked, nodding to the little girl on her lap.  He glanced at the meat before turning it again.

“No,” she said, shaking her head.  “I found her on the road, in the clearing, right before-,” she broke off, her voice soft and looked at the ground.  “You know the rest.”

He nodded.

“I just wish you were there for the other times.”

Jaime looked at her sharply.  “ _Other_ times?  How many other times?”

She shrugged once more.  “Three or four.  Does it count if they make you-,”

“It counts,” he said, acid rushing to the middle of his chest.  “It counts if you say ‘no,’ tell them to stop and they… _don’t_.”  His eyes slipped to the fire.  “It counts, girl.  How old are you?”

The girl shrugged.

 _She must be no more than ten, eleven, twelve…_   “Have you flowered yet?”

She shook her head. 

 _At least she won’t have a babe of her own…for now…_ Jaime, thought _._   “Where are your parents?”

“Dead.  Where are yours?”

“The same.”

“Before or after?”

Jaime didn’t have to wonder what she meant.  “One before the war.  One, after.”

“Same as me.  But then, some people found me, took me in with them for a while.”

Jaimed brightened.  “I could help you find them.  Where are they now?”

“I don’t know.” 

Disappointment roughened Jaime’s voice.  “You don’t _know_ what happened to them?”

“No.  I don’t remember.  It was a long time ago.  I was about the baby’s age when they found me. I remember some things, though.  I remember a fire.  A dead woman.  I thought she was only sleeping but now I know she was dead.  A man in black, always yelling.  A girl.  She looked like a boy but she was a girl, I remember.  She took me with her to make water and I saw it, that she didn’t have a _thing_.  And I remember a boy. There was something wrong with his leg.  The others had to carry him.”  Jaime glanced across the cook fire.   Her eyes flickered with a brightness that wasn’t there before.  But then she blinked and the light dimmed.  “One day we were together, Woodcutter.  The next, we weren’t.  That’s all I can remember.” 

 _My gods, Cersei...Cersei…what have we done?..._ “Any brothers or sisters?” he asked, softly.

“No.  I told you all I remember.  What about you?”

He pursed his lips, shook his head.

She smiled.  “Orphans, then.  Me, you and her.”  She kissed the baby’s temple.

It was strange to hear himself named as such, him who was born heir to the richest family in the realm… _but no amount of gold could save her, no, no,… we were all three orphaned the day Tyrion was born…no more room for even his own children in Father’s stingy heart…_ “Yes,” he said to the girl.  “I suppose that’s true.”

“Maybe they’re all together now, like us, too.”  The girl,  ** _Weasel_** _, oh gods, what a terrible name,_  seemed to perk up at the notion.  Jaime thought of Tywin, of Cersei, their endless plots and calculations for amassing more power, always power and never accounting for honor, truth or love.  He told another lie to the girl, a smile rising through his matted beard.  “Maybe they are,” he said. “Maybe they are.”  She began to pepper him with questions.  Where was he from, how old he was, where he was going, was he married, _where he was going_ , on and on, never even waiting for the answer, as only a child can.

“Enough,” he said.  “I have said all I mean to say.”  He judged the meat done and picked it out of the pan with the point of his dagger.  He cut the scalding meat, dividing it in sections, then cut smaller portions for the baby’s small teeth.

“It’s hot,” he warned, pushing a pile of meat onto a dented tin plate then gave the plate to Weasel.  “Make sure it’s cool enough for her, first.”  Weasel took turns blowing on the meat for the baby and gingerly eating her own.  It was like eating hot coals.  Jaime couldn’t wait for it to cool and he felt for days the raw reminder of his impatience on his fingertips and tongue and the tender skin on the roof of his mouth.

But never,  _never_ has anything felt so good.

Not sliding in and out of Cersei’s wet cunt nor ending the siege at Riverrun nor Brienne naked and blazing over him in a hot bath made Jaime Lannister feel as alive as this gamey horse flesh filling his stomach. He washed it down with melted snow Weasel kept to a low boil.  He had to remember to slow down or risk throwing the meat back up.  He cautioned the little girls of the same but it was useless, they were all too well past hunger to care.   The baby smacked and drooled with delight.  Weasel only chewed the meat a few seconds before gulping it down for more.  Jaime almost sighed with every bite.  But it still needed  _something._

“If only we had _spice_ ,” he said around a mouthful of meat.

Weasel turned with a yelp, almost dropping the baby and rummaged in her bag.  “From the rapers,” she said, tossing him a small, tightly tied bundle of cheesecloth.  Jaime gave his own cry when he saw what shimmered inside. 

“Salt!”  Never had it tasted so good on his tongue.  He winced when it stung the burnt places in his mouth but he smiled.  “It appears the dear rapists were good for something after all. Now I regret chopping off their heads.  Perhaps I should have asked first about some pepper.”

The girl blinked at him then giggled. Jaime stared at her in wonder, not believing this silly, girlish sound came from hard, little Weasel.  The burbling giggle grew into a laugh.  The laugh grew louder and wider, like an avalanche.  Weasel threw her head back, showing the dark places of missing teeth, then launched herself forward to wrap her arms around he baby in her lap. They both shook with her laughter.  Jaime could feel the corners of his own mouth pull up and soon he joined her, slapping his knee and wiping the tears from his eyes.  When the baby added her chirping giggles, Jaime and Weasel dissolved into laughter once more and Jaime almost choked on the meat tucked away in the pocket of his cheek.  He sputtered and coughed and Weasel gave him a few solid thumps to get him breathing again.  He thanked her, eyes streaming and after a few laughing gasps, continued his meal.  They continued to push each other to more giggles with mutters of “Salt!” or “Pepper!” throughout the night.

In the end, they weren’t sick, just full and sleepy and warm.  Jaime thanked the horse as the baby began to fall asleep on his chest.   Jaime took turns with the older girl staying up all night to watch for brigands and cook the meat to eat days later.  For one so young, she was as good a watch as he’d seen and he knew her years alone were responsible for the gift as much as the curse.

Weasel smiled as she met his eyes across the fire. She flipped another chunk of meat.  Jaime pretended not to notice the smile, the warm weight of the toddler sprawled across him.  He told himself he was only holding her so she stayed quiet, at last.

With her belly full, Jaime rubbing horse drippings on her red, welted cheeks, the little girl let him hold her, for whatever her own reasons, and stopped crying.

************************************************************************

 

 

“Where are you going?”

Weasel pulled back the flap, her voice croaky with sleep.  The babe still slept deeper inside the tent.  Jaime kept packing in the morning chill but did not answer.

The thin sun barely lifted over the horizon, giving Jaime just enough light to see.  It was the third day since he killed the horse.  They moved their camp on the second day, leaving the carcass for the waiting crows.  Jaime almost forgot his intention, already growing used to their company.   _Even if the sullen bastards wanted **me**  dead,_ he reasoned,  _surely_   _they would spare these two wretches if I brought them to Winterfell?... **surely?**..._   But last night, Jaime dreamed of Cersei and their dead children.   Her slender, white arms gathered around their babies, drawing them to her full bosom.  The children were gray with death as she held them.  Gone was her mocking laughter.  Jaime saw in his dream a sight he rarely saw when wakened: Cersei’s green eyes glittering with tears.  Her mouth did not move but he heard her crying voice circling around his mind… _Our children were kings, a princess and you could not save them, Jaime…or is it you care for these filthy urchins more than your own blood?...how will you save these poor wretches, brother?...have you not done enough to harm them, to help them?...how will you save them, Jaime?...how will you save them?...or will you do to them what you did to us?..._

 _No, no,_ he heard himself answer _, I tried to save you, Cersei, I **loved** you, you **loved** me…_

 _No one loves you, sweet brother,_ Cersei cried.

_No, that’s not true…Brienne, Brienne the Beauty loves me…as I love her…she will always love me…_

_No_ , said Cersei’s shade, sadly _, that is but another lie, sweetling, another lie you have told yourself, another lie, like you loved me…you cannot save these poor wretches…and you do not deserve mercy, Jaime…mercy, for what you did to us…look at what you did to us…you swore to protect us, sweet brother...to protect us, to love us...but we are dead...dead...and the wench…the wench will never love you…never love you…as you never loved me…_

 _No…NO!..._   

He felt Weasel shaking him awake.

He sat up.  A long finger of sweat slid cold against his back.  He panted, as if sprinting from his dream. He could see the fire blazing through the open flap. It glinted off his dagger in Weasel’s hand.  “Did I cry out?” he asked her.

She only looked at him.  “Sleep with the baby,” is all she said before leaving to continue her watch.  She put the dagger in the sheath then picked up the snoring child. Weasel arranged the girl across Jaime’s chest and threw a blanket over them both. Then she left, closing the flap of the tent, leaving them in darkness.  He wanted to tell her to leave it open for he feared Cersei returning with her arms full of dead children. He did not dream of Cersei again that night.  But when his eyes pulled open as Weasel woke him for his watch, he felt the baby snuggle deeper into his neck.   Jaime knew then what he must do.  He could not carry the orphans and his dead children and her blue, blue eyes.  He was not strong enough now and did not believe he had  _ever_  been, no matter the legend of his sword-hand.  He stared into the fire on his watch, cleaning his sword and knew what he must do.

“ _Where_ are you _going_?” Weasel repeated, standing outside the tent. Her voice was a fierce whisper.   Jaime saw her tiny hands were coiled into fists.  He could not meet her eyes.

“Nowhere I can take you, girl,” he whispered back.

“ _Horseshit,”_ she hissed, moving away from the tent _._ “You can take us _anywhere_.  You just don’t  _want_  to take us with you.” She pulled her cloak tightly around her small body.  

Jaime stopped packing, forcing his eyes to Weasel’s face.  “You’re right.  I _don’t_ want to take you with me.”

“So you’ll just leave us, then?  Is that it?”

“Yes.  That’s what I plan to do.”

“What happens if we freeze?”

“You are not that  _stupid_ , girl.”  He started packing again.  “Build a fucking fire, you  _lackwit_.”

“That’s what I was  _trying_  to do when those men found us.  What happens if men like the ones you killed find us again?”  
“Drop her and  _run_.”

“Are you  _serious?_ ”

Jaime looked at her.  “ _Quite._ ”

“I can’t leave her!  She’s just a  _baby_!”

“And babies weigh you down.  Look around you, stupid girl.  The last  _fucking_  thing you need at the end of the  _fucking_  world is a  _fucking_  baby, adorable though she may be, to tote around.  One is bad enough but you’re asking me to carry  _two_.  I’m not _stupid_ and I’m not taking you with me.”

“Well if you’re not  _stupid_ , then that’s the  _stupidest_  thing I’ve ever heard.  Why save us if you didn’t plan to _really_  save us?”

He sighed.  “I  _had_  to save you.  They were going to  _rape_  you and  _kill_  you and do gods know what else to the little one.  I did what I had to do to stop them.”

“But what if they come back?”

“I cut off their heads and hacked them to pieces.  They  _aren’t_ coming back.”

“But they’re aren’t the only monsters out here.”

He stopped his movements and looked at her, narrowing his eyes.  “What do you  _mean_?”

“I  _mean_ there are men like them _everywhere_.  Women, too, that want to hurt children.”

_Oh, yes, believe me, I know…_

Jaime could feel his patience wearing to nothing.  “I could  _barely_  feed myself, _Weasel_.   _How_  am I supposed to feed  _three_?”

“You found a way.  You’ll find a way again.”

“No, I  _won’t_.  It was luck-,”

“You’ll get lucky again.”

“No, child,  ** _NO_!**   I  _cannot_ and I  _will not_  take you with me! I have left you half of the meat and if you ration it out, it should last you a good while. You have the tent, some extra woolens, bedrolls, furs.”  He stood from a squat to leave, putting his arms through the pack for his back.  The girl looked at the ground. Jaime saw the trembling on her lips and knew she struggled not to cry.  Despair flowed through him but he gentled his voice.  “Weasel, listen.   _Please_ , listen.  I have  _shit_  for honor and you wouldn't want my help if you knew of the things I've done.  I have done all I can for you and the baby.  I can’t do anything more.”

“You  _can_  but you  _won’t_.  You’re nothing but a  _coward_!” she spat at him.

Anger surged through Jaime at that word.  “ _Gods_ , we have been over this!  I _can’t_ take you with me!  Now Seven Blessings to you and  _fuck_  all else.”  He turned and walked away.

“You’re a  _fucking_ knight!  You’re supposed to  _protect_  us!”

Jaime froze and turned around, slowly regarding the girl through narrowed eyes.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you  _do_.”

"No, I  _don't._ "

The girl only looked at him, her bruised lips pursed in a smirk.

“I am no _knight_ , Weasel.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Prove it then.  How do you know I'm a knight?”

She nodded to his hip.  “Your  _sword_.”

He squirmed.  “What about it?”

“It cut through that horse’s body like warm butter.”  When he said nothing, she continued.  “Only  _Valyrian_  steel could do that.  And only _knights_ and lords carry Valyrian steel.”

“How do you even know what Valyrian steel looks like, girl?”

She scoffed.  “Please.  It’s even a  _magic_  sword.  I saw the writing or some such on the blade.  Even if the biggest fool in the Seven fucking Kingdoms didn’t know what Valyrian steel  _looks_ like, they know what it can do.”  She eyed him sharply.  “Like cut through the skull of a horse like fucking paper.”

Jaime swallowed.  “There is nothing special about this sword, girl.  I don’t look it but I’m  _uncommonly_ strong.”

She ignored his lies.  “Where did you get it?”

“Get what?”

“You’re stalling for time, _Ser_ Marqus.  The sword, you  _idjet_.”

“I stole it off a dead man.”   _Woman…_

“ _That_ sword’s Valyrian steel.  They aren’t just laying around, waiting to be stolen by a one handed man.”

“He was a  _very_  important man.”

“No, I think  _you’re_  the very important man.  Or _were_.”  Her quick, brown eyes raked him from boots to head.  “You sound like a bleedin’ knight.  You even swear like a bleedin’ knight.  You’re as beautiful as any knight in a song, even if you’re covered in filth and horse blood and stink to the Seven Heavens.  So you’re a bleedin’ knight.”

Jaime regarded her coldly.  “I did my duty by you and the baby.  My vows are unbroken, girl.”  Weasel said nothing.  “All the knights are  _dead_ ,” he snarled as he turned and walked a few paces.

Weasel called to him.  “Ser Marqus?”

Jaime did not answer and kept walking.

“Ser Marqus?” the girl called in a louder voice.

He sighed, turned with a pound of his fist on his thigh.  “What is it you _want_ , you thrice-damned  _wretch_?” 

Weasel turned her head to look over her left shoulder, to look at the tent. Then she looked back at Jaime.  He felt the stone weight of her eyes pressing against his heart.  When she spoke, her voice was thick with tears.  “All the knights  _aren’t_  dead, Ser Marqus.  Or the things they stood for.  Not while you’re _alive_.  So, please, ser.   _Please._   Tell me any lies you want.  Just take us with you.” 

They stared at each other across the distance.

Jaime almost,  _almost_  relented.

Instead, he turned and walked away.

 

 


	5. Ash and Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Jaime arrives in the north...

In the end, Jaime did not decide to leave the girls.  

The girls decided not to be left.  

They followed him as he tramped through patches of earth and slush, the toddler in a makeshift harness on Weasel’s chest.  On her back, she carried their gear and the waxed cotton used for the tent folded up in a tight, neat bundle.  For a small thing, _she_  was uncommonly strong.  Weasel moved quickly, quietly across the terrain and Jaime was surprised as he set camp at twilight on the day of his leaving.  He thought he had finally given her the slip.  She dropped their things away from his, careful not to speak to Jaime.  But her cutting words were said loudly to the babe.

“So, the  _brave_  knight thinks he can leave us, baby.  The  _golden_  knight thinks he can leave us to die in the snow while he goes the wrong fucking way.”  Weasel breathed heavily as she dropped the tent and furs onto the damp ground.  The hair peeking under her woolen cap clung to her forehead and dripped into her glaring eyes.  

Jaime glared back at her.  “If you think I’m going the  _wrong_ way, you wretched cur, why don’t you leave me alone and go the  _right_  way?”

Weasel shut her mouth but Jaime feared she would kill him with her stares.  She quickly changed into dry clothes then set to preparing camp for her and the child.  Jaime tried to ignore the babe toddling into his declared space.  

“If she falls into the fire,” he hissed at Weasel, “it will be your fault.  Keep her out of my camp.”

“Come, baby,” she replied, her voice sweeter than a summer honeycomb, “the  _kind, noble_  knight doesn’t want us to dirty his dirt with our poor, smallfolk feet.”  Jaime rolled his eyes as Weasel held the little girl’s hand, leading her away from Jaime’s camp.  That night, Jaime knew Weasel kept watch not for brigands but for him slipping off while they slept.  He would use her tiredness against her, vowing to rise in the chill dawn, packed and ready for departure.  To his astonishment, so was Weasel.  He scowled as she grinned.  She gave the smiling toddler a kiss on the top of her head and Jaime heard her steady footsteps following him on the trail. 

This scrimmage played out over five days of no new snow.  The gods in their mercy and japes blessed them with a warmth turning snow to slush, returning for a moment the surety of brown earth instead of the treachery of ice.  In this way, Weasel followed him with ease.  Jaime cursed the gods and tried to outpace her but there she was every night, taunting him for leaving and telling the babe he went the wrong way.  On the fifth night, as the babe plopped down into his lap and reached for a piece of meat on his plate, Jaime knew he lost the battle.  In the morning, he added most of the weight from Weasel’s pack to his own.  She searched his eyes and saw the truth of his decision, the moment of her victory.

“Thank you,” is all she said, softly.

He nodded, a small dip of his chin, and began the day’s hike.   That evening, Jaime began calling the pretty toddler with the soft, brown curls and eyes, Baby Girl.  He tried to avoid paying any attention to these girls who have latched on to him but, with a sigh, here they are.  He feels the weight of them on his lap.  He feels them in the stuffed pack he carries on back.  He feels them growing heavy on his mind and heart with how he will care for them.

“ _Baby Girl_?” repeats Weasel when she overhears him say it to the babe. He fed Baby Girl a small piece of horsemeat.  The babe smacked with delight and drool and reached for more.  They had taken to packing the cooked meat in snow at night to keep it from turning and Jaime thanked the gods and that horse every time he bit into a strip of warmed meat.

“Yes, Baby Girl.  She’s a  _baby_  and she’s a  _girl_.  It’s better than Weasel,” he snapped.

“I didn’t name myself,  _fool_.”

“Then you can un-name yourself,  _fool_.”  

“Yes.  I must be the biggest  _fool_ that ever lived.  Only a fool would follow another fool hells bent on going the wrong way.”  Jaime paid her back in glares and silence.

But the girl spoke truth in her nightly accusations: they seemed the only souls heading into the cold wind blowing from the north.  They passed fewer and fewer people each day they traveled through the desolate Riverlands and none of them headed in this same direction.  Now that it seemed the Dragon Queen was not her father and would not roast innocents to the sound of her tinkling laughs, folk began moving south once again.  But one night, they met a small party running from the north and the folk seemed filled with a nameless terror that made them quiet.  

They would not speak of it, only to tell him, like Weasel warned, he was going the wrong way. 

Something worse than wildlings and flesh-eating Thenns and the cruelty of the flaying men comes, they said---and the high lords cannot protect them from its coming.  Yes, the Starks defeated the torturers, the Boltons.  Yes, the direwolf flies once again over the battlements of Winterfell.  But nothing can protect them from the burning cold coming for them all.  He almost turned around, then, remembering his hunger and hurt at the foot of the weirwood tree for truly, like the lie of his dream,  _nothing_  waited for him in Winterfell.  Then he remembered her scowl and astonishing blue eyes and he refused offers to join them heading south.  Jaime told the travelers that the last of his family was in the north and he went to find them.  Some nodded, asking blessings from the nameless northern gods for his journey but most stared in silence and he knew they thought him a liar or fool.  But he did listen, though, to their other stories, bouncing Baby Girl on his lap.  He listened to the retelling of a retelling of a retelling of Walder Frey’s death, his throat slit to a bloody smile, his sons served to him in a pie, like the Rat Cook’s song come to life.  He counted the days from the death of the Freys and got a number just a few weeks before his visit by No One.  Jaime made faces at the babe to hear her laugh and wondered.  Weasel was strangely quiet around the campfire as she carried Baby Girl into the tent and readied her for bed.  Jaime took most of Weasel’s watch but the next day, it was as if Weasel never used the extra hours for sleep.  Bleary eyed and mute, she stumbled through their hike saying very little or nothing to Jaime or the babe.  Jaime almost missed her questions and prattle.  Even his japes could not pull a smile or a taunt from the girl.

“Are you well?”  Jaime stopped then to feel her forehead.

“I’m fine,” she said, shaking free of his touch.  But she said nothing more as they continued their journey.

That night, Weasel stared deeply into the fire and asked him why he went north when so many others now fled from the place.

“They’re running  _away_ ,” she said softly.  “They’re running  _away_.”  The silence stretched and Jaime wondered if she had fallen asleep.  He looked across the flames but she was still awake, her eyes fixed on the campfire. “They’re running away, Ser Marqus.  Why are we going there?”

Jaime did not answer.

“Everyone is running from the north, Woodcutter.  They said the lords can’t protect them.  So why are we running toward the place?”

Jaime scowled.  “No one is  _making_ you run anywhere, girl.”

She scowled in return, her glaring eyes still on the flames.  “Fine.  But you could at least answer my question. Why there?  Why north?”

A deep sigh filled his chest.  “There is a place in the north I must go.”

“Why?”

“There is someone there I---I respect. I respect a great deal.  And I wish to see again.”

“Who?”

“A friend.”

“Man or wom-,”

 “A  _friend_ , Weasel.  A friend.”

“A friend?” she repeated.

He hated when she used that tone.  “Yes, wretch,” he snapped.  “A friend.”

She pulled her eyes from the fire and gave him a long, searching look.  “Beggin’ your pardon but you don’t seem the type to have  _friends_ , Ser Marqus.”

He looked at her sharply.  “What the hells does  _that_ mean, girl?”

She shrugged.  “You’re too closed up.  You act like you’ve never had one friend in your whole miserable life.”

“That’s not true,” he said hotly.  “I’ve had friends.  Many friends.”  He thought of Addam and Tyrion and …Brienne. 

“Liar,” she said.

“Well, you said I could tell you any lie I wanted, yes?”

She gave him a crooked smile for reply. 

It was the first one he had seen from her all day.  He smiled back.  “But you are right.  I have not had many friends.  So it is especially true that I treat well the only one left to me.”

Weasel returned her eyes to the fire.  “I’ve only ever had just one friend.  I’ve always wanted more.”

Jaime feared the answer.  “What happened to them?  Your one friend?”

“I don’t know yet,” she shrugged.  “I only knew he wanted to go to a dangerous place but he wouldn’t tell me why.”

Jaime felt heat rush to his cheeks.  “So  _why_  go with him, wretched girl?”

She looked at him, narrowing her eyes.  “The same reason you’re taking us into terror.  Because he is the only friend I have.”  There was nothing more to say that night.  But Weasel seemed content to post an unbroken watch, staring sadly into the warm flames even when it was her turn to sleep.  Jaime pulled her from where she sat near the fire and pushed her into the tent to lie down on her roll, curled around Baby Girl.  And Weasel slept long and deep--- but dark circles haunted her eyes for days to come, worried, Jamie thought, about what waited for them in the North’s wild wind.

************************************************************************

 

_From somewhere Jaime never sees, Arya Stark watches him._

_Arya watches Jaime as he travels north, sees how he walks through the dead fields of mourning.  She sees his regret.  She sees his despair.   She heard him cry out the names of his dead children.  Arya sees him struggle to leave Weasel and the baby to the fate of the road.   She sees him give up the battle, take up his charge as a knight and open wide the gate of mercy to them.  She sees how he comes to care for the girls in the simple, silent ways in which people lay bare their hearts.  She sees Jaime trying to comb through the tangles in the baby’s hair with his fingers and after a while, using his dagger to cut them loose rather than her hurt with his pulling.  She sees him lengthening Weasel’s sleep, giving her only enough weight of their gear as he goes further north so that she gains stamina and is not broken by their long journey.  Arya sees Jaime walk the baby around the camp on his fingertips, gentle and strong and steady as she toddles, stretching her stubby legs before going in the harness.  She sees him feed the girls before he feeds himself; sees him stop to make sure the baby is clean and dry.  She even hears him singing to the girls as they trek through the quiet land in a terrible, straining falsetto for which, inexplicably, the baby claps for more.  She hides as they take shelter in a tumbledown barn and sees him worry himself sick when the baby takes a fever and the flux---thank the gods, not bloody---for three days.  She sees him spoon her dribbles of horsemeat broth every two hours through her cracked, burning lips.  She sees him hold her sprawled across his chest as she whimpers and Arya listens beneath the baby’s cries as he prays and prays and prays she be spared.  When the fever breaks, Arya saw Jaime and Weasel take turns sleeping in long shifts for one day while all three recovered from the child’s sickness._

_As she watches them leave the barn to continue moving toward the waiting wolves and the nameless terror, she sees the baby is bright eyed and babbling on Weasel’s chest, sees the smile Jaime gives to them both.  Arya wonders if the warmth from it could compete only with the sun in high summer.  It was clear to her in that moment.  Arya vowed never again to doubt her dream.  She did not know why, why the gods did as they did but she could not deny the truth._

_The gods truly chose the Kingslayer._

_And they would have their say, as always, despite the heart’s longing for love and vengeance._

 

************************************************************************

 

Jaime knew the walnuts were lucky as soon as he saw them.  He traded a small bag of the nuts for a few pieces of meat with some travelers.  He smiled with joy at their news and almost gave them back the nuts, for what they told him was worth even more.  The sainted travelers even threw in a few dried cherries.  He could not wait to surprise them with the cherries, sweetening the blow he was about to give the girls. 

The next day, Weasel noticed they were changing direction as Jaime led their hike.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

He did not answer.  _She is too smart for her own good…_ Baby Girl was awake, alert a warm but tense weight on his back.  For once he wanted Weasel to carry their gear instead of the baby.  They were a day away, at most, and he knew it best if he held at least one of the girls in case Weasel ran and hid.

“Ser Marqus?” asked Weasel again, “where are we going?”

He did not answer, knowing she would not like what he had to say.

“Where are you taking us?” she demanded.  “I won’t take another step until you answer my question!”

He turned around.   _Such a small, fierce thing…_

“I’m taking you to a real knight.”

“You told me all the knights were dead.”

“I was wrong, Weasel.  I thought he was dead,  _truly_ dead.  I saw him, I thought…” Jaime trailed off at the memory of a bloody face in the dark and wanted to laugh at the mummer’s gambit that so easily fooled him.  He hoped his own farce was as good as the Blackfish’s.  “I lied, Weasel.  I am a liar.  There is still one true knight in all of Westeros and his name is Brynden Tully, the Blackfish of Riverrun.  He holds the castle now.  You’ll be safe there.”

“The hells we will, with some fool named Blackfish.  You mock me if you think we won’t follow you!”

Jaime is weary, suddenly, beyond all understanding.   _Why does this fearsome child insist on trying me…_ “Weasel, he will take you in, keep you safe in ways I cannot.  They have walls, a moat.  I have a sword and horsemeat.  I am taking you to Riverrun.  Now, come along.”

He returned to leading the hike.

“No.”

Jaime stopped but did not turn around _._ He pulled deep breaths into his chest, calming his rising anger.   A madness, a fury threatened to take over him, pulling him under the weight of caring for them and wishing to be free of the burden.  He remembered his prayers, fearing the baby would die, fearing Weasel would take sick and die.  He tried to steady his voice, cool any heat, any emotion from with each breath.   He could not turn around to face her, not yet, not until he was under control.   The baby began to wiggle in her harness and cry.  “Weasel,” he said calmly.  “Please listen to me.  I am trying, trying hard, to save you and the babe.  This is for the best.  Please let me take you to Riverrun.  Please let me save you.”

“No.”

  Jaime closed his eyes.   _Baby Girl is but a babe…she will never know what I did…Widow’s Wail is sharp, I could do it so quickly, Weasel wouldn’t feel a thing, the babe wouldn’t hear a thing and she would wake up tomorrow morning in some warm nursery in Riverrun…_

Jaime turned to face her.  “Weasel, please…”

“No!  I choose your sword and horsemeat, Ser Marqus.  So stab me in the back and eat my share later but I am not going to Riverrun to live with something called a Blackfish.”  She turned around, heading back the way they came, heading north, again, instead of east.  Jaime waited until she was almost beyond his sight before he gave a filthy curse and followed.  They said not one word to each other as they hiked and set camp.  Jaime told himself he would not, could not really harm the wretched girl.  He told himself this story, over and over, his eyes following the cloth as he cleaned Widow’s Wail, until he made himself forget.

The next morning, as Jaime kicked dirt over the smoldering fire, a huge shadow, then another and another suddenly stretched over the bare trees.   Jaime looked up beyond their branches with wide, frozen eyes.  A part of him wondered at the sight, wondered at the miracle not seen in a thousand lifetimes.  The greater, wiser part of him sensed the danger and stifled the scream threatening to burst from his throat. 

Dragons, three riders wheeling them east. 

One of the beasts screeched into the wind, a wild, unearthly cry.  Jaime fought through the fear almost making him wet his breeches.  He was there in a stride, covering her mouth before Weasel could make a sound.  Jaime’s own fear and wonder reflected back to him in Weasel’s eyes.

“Get  _down_!” he hissed into her ear.  All three of them crouched into a ball, Baby Girl whimpering on Weasel’s chest.  Jaime crouched beside them, an arm thrown over the girls, pulling them closer to his side.  Weasel dropped her head to cover the baby and Jaime watched as the dragons passed, heading away from the Riverlands.

“Where are they going?” Weasel whispered.  Her small body shook and Jaime pulled her closer.  “Are they going north?”

“Quiet!” he hissed again.  Jaime bowed his head, praying to the Mother for mercy.  He counted to twenty before he moved to stand first, still shielding the girls as they cowered.

The dragons grew smaller and smaller as they flew to the long line of the black horizon.  Pale sunlight glinted off the silvery hair of two riders streaming from under their helms.   _No, it’s not possible,_  he thought,  _no, not another head of silver on the back of the green dragon, it was a trick of the light, no, no, I did not see a flash of gold from the third rider on the golden beast, no, no, NO!..._

“Ser Marqus!”  Jaime whipped his head to look at Weasel.  She stood from her crouch.  Jaime could not be certain if she bounced to soothe Baby Girl who fretted and looked at Jaime with watery eyes or to calm her own scared self.  “I asked you where were the dragons going?”

He swallowed and turned his head.  Jaime strained to see what he could of the dragons.  “East,” he said, finally.  Yes, he was certain.  He began to trek at a trot, north, always north.  “They are heading to the Vale of Arryn.  To the Eyrie.  It appears the Dragon Queen means to move her cyvasse pieces  _now_.  And the dragon is the most powerful piece in the game.”  Without meaning to, he moved faster.  “Do you know how to play cyvasse, girl?”

“No,” Weasel huffed behind him.

“Only a catapult can stop dragons, Weasel.  I wonder, sitting in their arrogance at the top of the world, if the Lords of the Vale dreamed they would ever need them for this most deadly foe.  Not one but _three_ dragons!  Thank the  _gods_  we opened the gates!”

“Ser Marqus-,”

“No more words, girl.  We must use our words sparingly for the time has come to run, to run if we must.  Come, Weasel,” said Jaime, panting already as he quickened his pace, “war is upon us and we have not a moment to lose.  Daenerys Targaryen brings her army of fire to burn the eagles in their Eyrie.”  A shudder rolled through him.  Jaime thought of the Vale folk who would burn tonight.   _Just let me live long enough to see those blue eyes again, please, you useless, feckless bastards…_ “And then she will turn her dragons north, to feast on what remain of the wolves.”

 

******************************************************************************

 

Jaime and the girls moved as quick, quiet shadows through the Neck, hardly speaking, up at dawn before hiking once more until twilight hid their path.

They walked deeper into the north, and in the wilderness between Torrhen’s Square and Moat Cailin, Jaime met a trio of northmen heading back to their home in Deepwood Motte, now that the Boltons are dead.   They wonder that Jaime has traveled so far with two small girls in tow.

 _Me, too…_ thought Jaime _._

“Brave man, that.  They your kin or something?” one asked him.  The man introduced himself as Alther.  The other two, Ulrick and Haster, were silent as they seamlessly moved about their camp tasks. Clearly, from how he sat talking to Jaime and Weasel, Alther was in charge.   He was a small, hatchet-faced man, gray of beard and eyes, in boiled leather and greasy furs.  A dented helm sat atop his head with a nose guard running between his knowing eyes.  Jaime watched him warily.  “No, we aren’t kin,” said Weasel to Alther, to his sharp eyes and nothing more.

Alther took them in with a keen but kindly gaze.  “Well, the road is a hard place for girls.  Lucky he found you two, then.”  Jaime said nothing, drinking a cup of thin broth.  Alther eyed him over his own steaming cup.  “So, where you headin’?”

Jaime had been over this in his head, hoping and praying it would work once he came north.  “To Winterfell.” Weasel whipped her head to look at him.  “To pledge my life to the Starks.  I’m from the Westerlands, from Ashemark but all the Lions ever did for me was get everyone I ever loved killed.” 

“That so?” asked the man.

“Aye,” says Jaime and spat.  “And that’s for the last one, the Imp.  I hope he dies, like the rest of ‘em.”

The man eyed him, slowly nodding his head then raised his cup.  “Death to the lions, then.”  He drank deeply.

“Death to the Lions,” Jaime repeated before drinking.  Weasel stared at him but said nothing.

“It’s funny you speak of lions,” said Alther around a belch.   “I heard the Dragon and her pet Imp took the Vale with little fight.  Seemed folk were glad to be rid of him called Littlefinger and their weak as water lord named Robin Arryn.  Heard the little lord threw himself from the Gates of the Moon when he saw the dragons flying over the mountains."

Weasel gasped.  Jaime looked at her.  She blinked then gave him a slight shrug.  But she still looked paler than usual.  Jaime remembered Tyrion telling him how the boy wanted to make him fly from the Moon Door to his death on the mountains below.  Even though Jaime should feel joy at Robin Arryn’s death, he felt pity: pity for the boy left without a father, a mother and at the mercy of the viper Petyr Baelish.

"What about the one called the Blackfish?" Jaime asked, turning from sad thoughts of the late Lord of the Vale.  "Has she flown to take Riverrun from the Tullys?"

"No, not yet, as far as I can tell.  From the sounds of it, she's got enough to worry on.  I did hear she left some silver haired pretender calling himself Aegon to rule the Vale while she flew back to King's Landing with the Imp to keep peace.  Seems folk are still cold and hungry and rioting for bread, even though the brother fucker and Kingslayer are both dead."

Jaime tried to keep his gaze steady and looked at Alther without blinking.  At least his wonder at the name was real.  "Aegon?  Did you say the name Aegon?"

The man gave a harsh bark of laughter.  "Aye.  The fool calls himself Aegon Targaryen.  Said he was but a babe when the city was sacked by the Old Lion and some folk loyal to the dragons switched him for another.  I say he has the right of it, that he's nothing but a thrice-damned changeling."  The man sighed deep in his chest.  "But the Dragon believes him, though, believes his bloody tale.  All that means for us, if you ask me, is more death and more killin', like we ain't had enough to last a lifetime."  He spat and eyed Jaime's stump.  “Well, I hope you have more luck with the wolves, Ashemark.  They may be safe.  For now.”  Jaime could only stare into the fire, wondering at what it all meant.

With twilight quickly falling, they readied the camp for sleep in the fading light.  The men tended the three horses, rubbing them down, feeding the beasts handfuls of hay smelling faintly of summer.  Jaime wished he could roll around in the scratchy stuff, a reminder of lazy days in the sun.  Instead, Jaime readied Baby Girl for bed.  She took turns sleeping across their chests to keep her warm and though he would rather die than admit it, he grew fond of her sweet snuffles and the feel of her silky curls underneath his chin.  But tonight, she would sleep with Weasel since Jaime offered to take a watch so that the girl could rest.  The way to Winterfell was harder and harder and he would have her strong for the journey.  Jaime looked around for the girl.  She still had not returned from relieving herself in private. Jaime was just about to look for her, counting the men to see if any slipped off, when she returned to camp, her eyes bright, holding something in her hands.  She dropped it in in front of him and it made a thin, brittle sound.  Baby Girl reached chubby fingers to touch the bundle but Jaime was quicker, picking her up and giving her his finger instead to hold in her plump hands.  Jaime gasped when Weasel opened the bundle.

“Dragonglass,” breathed Weasel and the three northmen gathered around.  They crouched to inspect jagged pieces of the black, glittering stuff, oily and slick.   Jaime handed Baby Girl to Weasel and picked up a dagger, bringing it to his eyes in the dying light. It was so black, so deeply black that the stars breaking above his head kindled and glowed in the surface of the blade.  

It was beautiful.  

Jaime ran his thumb across the edge and gasped.   He sucked his finger and tasted warm, salty blood.   _Deadly…_

“Where did you find this, girl?” asked Alther.

“I went to make water and found a tree.  There was a hole underneath the tree, just under a root, and inside the hole, the bag.”

Jaime stared at her.  She stared at him, eyes wide.

“Did I do something wrong?  Should I have left it?”

“No,” said Jaime, gentling her.  “It’s just…strange.”

“Queer,” put in Haster.

“Well, I think it’s beautiful,” said Weasel.  “An old woman told me dragonglass was special.  Was the only thing that could kill White Walkers, except fire.”

Alther laughed.  “Did she tell you about grumpkins and snarks, too?”  But Jaime heard the shakiness in the man’s laughter.

“Yes, she did,” said Weasel, all defiance, “and she told me that you had to burn the Walkers and anyone they killed.”  Jaime looked at the glass.  Aegon Targaryen returning from the dead.  The impregnable Eyrie fallen.  Three dragons wheeling over his head.   A weirwood tree and the gift of dragonglass. 

_Why here?  Why tonight?_

He stood and looked at the northmen. Jaime gripped the handle of the dagger, already claiming it for his own.  “I think we should double our watch, build up multiple fires around the camp and keep this dragonglass at the ready.  Here,” he began handing out the daggers but the northmen look at each other then at him.

“We ain’t doin’ no more work, Ashemark, and were tired,” said Ulrick.  “The Boltons are dead and once again, there’s a King in the North.  I just started sleeping peaceful again and I’m not giving up a good night’s sleep ‘cause of some bleedin’ stories some old hag told this girl.”

Jaime looked at Alther.  The other man looked away with a shrug.  “My men are tired, Ashemark.  The lots for the watch still stands.”  A small cheer went up from Haster and Ulrick.  Jaime turned to Weasel and shoved a dagger in her hand.  When the men moved off to finish their preparations, Jaime put a hand on the girl’s shoulder, bringing her closer.

“Do you know how to climb a tree?”

The girl nodded.

“Good.  When I give the signal, I want you to climb as fast as you can, as high as you can until the danger passes.  Tonight, she will sleep on your chest in the harness.”

She looked at him, afraid.  “What will you do?”

“Stand and fight them.”

“That’s stupid!  Climb a tree with us!”

He smiled at her, cupped her face with his hand and said softly, “I can’t, remember?  I’m a knight and I’m supposed to protect you.”

“What if they kill you?”

“They won’t.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t.  But I’ve been told that it is difficult to get me to do things I don’t want to do.  And I  _don’t_  want to die.” He wondered, for a moment, at the change.  “And I won’t let them hurt you, either.”

“But what if they do kill you?  Where will we go?”

“Go to Winterfell.  The Starks are cold, judging bastards but they will take you in.”  Jaime knew he sneered when he saw the look Weasel gave him through narrowed eyes. 

“Do you hate them?  These Starks?”

Jaime started to answer then shrugged.

“But if you hate them so much, why are you going to join them?”

Jaime bit his lip.  “For love.”

“I knew it!” Weasel shouted.  “You came all this way for a… woman!”  Baby Girl gave a small clap, thinking it a game.

“Hush!” Jaime hissed at them.  “Yes, Weasel.  I came all this way through cold and death and starvation for a woman.  And when you meet her, you will know why.  She is the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“In the  _world_!  Well, what does she look like, does she look like you then---“

“ _Weasel_!  This is no time for love stories.  Do you know how to use a knife?”

Weasel stared at him.  “Of course I do,  _fool_.”

“Good.  Then stab and stab until they don’t get up again.”

She nodded then beckoned him closer.  “I’ve heard there’s something else that can kill White Walkers, Ser Marqus,” she said for his ears only.

“What is that?”

“Valyrian steel,” she whispered.  “Will you use yours?”

He thought a moment.  “Only if I must.  But I have an idea, girl.  Put her to bed then help me tear a cloth into strips.”

************************************************************************

Night fell.

 Jaime looked down at the dragonglass dagger tied with strips of cloth around his stump.  Another dragonglass dagger rested near his hand as he tested the tightly wound strips.  Jaime prayed they remained in place during a battle with the Walkers.   He slashed and feinted, getting used to the feel of the makeshift weapon unlike even his golden hand. Jaime’s watch was over but he could not sleep and knew that Weasel could not sleep, eyes open and shifting beside him.  He heard her whispering, “Climb the tree, stick ‘em until they’re dead, climb the tree, stick ‘em until they’re dead.” Jaime knew the young girl was afraid but she would be brave.  Jaime tried to be brave about the cold creeping under his clothes and burning across any exposed skin.  He was cold, so cold.  His teeth chattered as he burrowed deeper into his cloak and knew that if the Others did not take him tonight, surely would the cold.  It made him sleepy and he got up at turns to stamp warmth back into his body and check on the girls.  Weasel continued her mantra with the baby silent, eyes wide, against her chest.  Jaime practiced aiming his stump at a coming Walker.  He sat back down and judged they were but a few hours from dawn.  Perhaps they would be spared, he thought.  He leaned his back against a tree.

And awoke to a scream.

“Weasel, Weasel, now!   **CLIMB**!” Jaime’s voice was like the roar above the battlefield.

 Weasel darted up a tree, Baby Girl crying at the coming danger.  Jaime ignored Baby Girl’s cries over his head, knowing she was safe with Weasel as he saw a White Walker stumble toward him through the camp, its blue eyes dead and searching.  Jaime stared at nothing else but the blue eyes as his hand and stump readied for battle.  No, these were not the lovely blue eyes of his Beauty, not the warm blue eyes that showed him more than she could ever know.  No.   Jaime saw the blue eyes of the Walker shambling closer and closer and he knew they cared not for love or for the scales.  They wanted to break them, break the scales of life with darkness and death. With a cry, Jaime fought for them, fought for the scales, fought for the lives, for the love, that hung in the weighing.  The Walker fell from a slash with his blade but another was soon upon him.  Jaime’s daggers were on fire with starlight as they burned through this walker and then another over and over again.  Then he saw Weasel, a quick little thing, dropping out of the branches in a roll, darting in and out, her own knife flashing.

“ **NO!”**  he screamed but she was lost in the melee, the darkness and the Walkers kept coming at him.  He must get to Weasel.  Jaime dropped the dagger from his hand and pulled Widow’s Wail from its sheath.

The blade is on fire.

Jaime shouted something in a tongue he has never heard, words never spoken from his own lips as the flaming blade arcs and cuts through the Walkers, shattering them back to the hells from which they came.  Some shrank from his words and the flame, running into the shadow of the woods.  Others pressed forward to pull him into their everlasting darkness. 

There was no time to think about any of this.  He must get to Weasel. 

He saw Ulrick and Haster fall to the Others, the beasts leaping upon their bodies as the men screamed, blood spurting into blackened mouths as they chewed through their living flesh.  Some Walkers broke off and came at Jaime.  Some stayed to feast on the northmen while others hunted for Alther.  Jaime cut and slashed at any near him, shattering through their undead bodies with his flaming sword.

Jaime must get to Weasel.  

She cut through the Walkers, like him, a blade in both hands, fighting, ferocious and cursing.

Jaime must get to Weasel.  

He slashed out and a Walker shattered before him like glass. 

He must get to Weasel.  

She fought and fought, a natural, yes, but she did not see the last Walker coming from her blind side, on her left, did not see the fell beast reaching out its white hands, fingernails black with death and decay, its mouth already opened…

 **“NO!”** Jaime screamed and plunged the sword into the Walker’s side.  The beast broke apart, its thin wail falling away to nothing.  Weasel fell to the ground.  She did not move.  Blood poured from the bite in her neck.  Her woolen cap slipped from her hair.  
The first fingers of dawn stretched through the trees.

But Jaime did not see them.  He did not see the leaping flames on Widow’s Wail die as he killed the last Walker.  He did not see Alther standing over the two northmen, blood dripping from the black blade in his hands.  Jaime fell to his knees and could see nothing before him but the child.  He saw a child, his Weasel, her blood strangely black as it suddenly stopped bleeding.  Her arm moved.  Jaime grabbed her arm and shook her calling, “Weasel, Weasel!”  But when she turned her head to look at him, he saw her eyes are not brown but a deep, frozen blue that did not see him anymore, saw only his warm blood.  His Weasel was gone.  In her place, this creature made a hiss, like a wild, hungry animal.   Jaime plunged the dragonglass dagger through the blue eye.  The hiss died as Jaime heard someone screaming.   

Jaime did not hear Baby Girl’s cries just at the edge of his hearing, somewhere above his head.  Instead, he heard someone screaming, heard the woods and sky filled with the screams, the wailing going on and on until it burned out in heaving sobs.  He could not turn his eyes from the black wound where he struck the dagger, listening to the sound from his own soul as it splintered.

It is the sound of the scales tipping down, with his heart.  

So heavy, that it may break forever.

************************************************************************

 

 

 Of all the northmen, only Alther remained.  He kept a dragonglass dagger as a token and as a Walker bore down on him, he slashed out with nothing left to lose.  He kept slashing at anything near him and their five daggers sent seventeen White Walkers back to the darkness from which they shambled.  In the thin sunlight, Alther worked silently but quickly to build a fire large enough to burn the two northmen and a small girl.  Jaime sat on the ground, Baby Girl’s head pressed against his heart.  She whimpered and snuggled closer to him.  He curled around the baby, dried eyed at last for his grief was beyond tears. Alther spared him only fleeting glances as he went about his work.  They must burn them, quickly, and be gone before night came again.

“I as good as killed her when she wouldn’t let me take her to Riverrun,” he muttered into the baby’s hair.  Alther was standing over him in a stride.

“You start with this and I’ll open your throat, Ashemark.”

“I failed her.”

“You didn’t fail the girl.  _They_  killed her and them boys too.”  A deep sigh filled Alther’s chest.  “And if anything, name me the biggest fool here.  I should have listened and made them take daggers.  Doubled the watch, set up fire…but I didn’t.  And now they are dead.  And though I didn’t know those lads well, I will still have to face those who loved them and tell them why they’re not coming home.”

“Love,” Jaime spat.  “I  _hate_  that useless, fucking word.”

“And yet, you loved her.  Like you love that babe, too.”

Jaime glared up at him, hate burning through his chest for this man.  “And I _failed_ her!”

Alther knelt before Jaime.  “I saw how you wielded that sword, boy.  And I know you were once a soldier, even if now you say you are a woodcutter.  So you did what any soldier does in battle.  You did your best.”

“And my best failed, old man.  She is dead.   **DEAD!”**

The baby jumped at the boom of his voice and began to cry.

“Yes, she is dead,” said Ulther, softly, “but not because of you.  Yet if you carry on like this, you  _will_  be what kills that little one.”

“I tried to save her.” 

“I know.”

“Why didn’t I just drag her to Riverrun?”

“I only knew the girl one day but I could see she wouldn’t go anywhere without you.”

“I’m a man grown!  I should have dragged the wretches by their hair, if needed!  **I SHOULD HAVE DRAGGED THEM TO RIVERRUN!** ”  His scream was hoarse from already filling up the skies.  

The baby cried and reached for Alther.  The man knelt to pick her up.

“If you keep this up, you’ll only deafen this child, fool.”

Jaime said nothing. His body shook with silent tears, sweat beading on his forehead, under his arms, across the small of his back.  

Alther’s own voice was thick with tears when he spoke again.  “You didn’t fail the girl, Ashemarke.  Don’t steal the truth of that away from yourself.  And if you won’t accept the truth, you will die and this babe will die, too.”

“Then you take her,” Jaime sobbed.  “Please.”

“No.  I can’t.  The gods gave her to  _you_ , it’s clear, and the other girl, too.   _You_  must carry them, Ashemark, to the end.  For what purpose, only they alone know.”

Jaime caved into himself once more.  He cried, hard, and knew Alther struggled to understand him.  “Then they should have let me save her.”

“There is mercy in here, somewhere boy, though you can’t see it now.”

“They have no _mercy_.  If they did, they should have sent someone stronger to protect her.”

“They sent for _you_.  And you did your best.”

“It was not _enough_.”

“It was everything you had.”

“I told her to stay in the tree, that I would fight them,-”

“Weasel was scared for you, boy, and she wanted to help you.”

His face crumpled at the sound of her name.  “And she was just a little girl and I left her to fight them on her own.”

“You did everything you could to  _save_  her, to save  _them_.  To save all of us.  And it could have worked.  But it didn’t, not this time.  That’s the lesson of the battlefield, Ashemark.  You will win and you will lose.  You know this.  But next time, it will work.”  Jaime heard the grit in Alther’s words and looked up at the old man. “It  _will._ ”  Alther placed Baby Girl back on Jaime’s lap.  The old man ran a rough hand over her curls.  “Look at me, boy.  She is gone.  Aye, it’s true and it was them that took her.  Never forget that.  It was _them_.  So when you get to Winterfell---I said  _when_ , not  _if_ \---you will teach this little one and train your bodies, train your arms, sharpen your minds like them black blades--- and take your revenge.  Now grieve for her, yes, and always you will. As I will grieve and avenge mine.  But _never_ blame yourself.  The only way you could fail the girl is if you give up and stop fighting.  At least she is not one of them bloody Others.  And neither are those lads.”  

Jaime squinted his eyes and more hot tears slid down his cheeks and into his beard.  When Jaime nodded, slowly, Alther stood.  He picked up the dropped wood, continuing to pile it on the pyre.  After some time, Jaime stood and asked Alther to help strap Baby Girl across his back.

“You don’t have-,”

“No.  I do.  I want to.  I need to help.”

Alther nodded and helped him with the straps.  Soon Baby Girl was asleep on his back, the warm weight of her a comfort.

They burned the bodies, Weasel cradled between the two dead soldiers.  Jaime held Baby Girl close as she whimpered and cried.  Jaime dampened her curls with his own tears, hot as they trailed down his face.  But inside, a cold, tight fury pulsed through his heart as he watched Weasel turn to bone and ash.  His left hand clenched into a fist, the nails burning into his palm.  He would discover why his sword burst into flame.  He would discover what those strange words meant.  And he would hunt down and kill every one of these fell, dead-eyed beasts that threatened those he… _loved_. 

While the fire still blazed, he watched as Alther turned his horse’s head and Haster’s horse to ride hard for Deepwood Motte, driving the mounts through the long night, warning of their battle with the Others.  The two men divided the cache of dragonglass and knew to keep it within the reach of a hand.  Alther handed Baby Girl up to Jaime as he sat the horse, then helped secure the little girl in front of him. 

“The knot on that harness was one of the best I’ve ever seen.  Weasel did her duty.  So you do yours.  Take care of the babe, Ashemarke.  The old gods rule here and you would do well to remember that.”  His gaze sharpened.  “And they have claimed you, _marked_ you for something greater than your grief. That much is clear.”

“I will.  I swear.”

The two men nodded their farewell.

Jaime turned his own horse and set out for Winterfell, Alther telling him to cut through the Wolfswood to save time.  Jaime thanked the old northman and promised to ride like death was behind them.

For it was.

And in Jaime’s pack, a small, woolen cap to balance the weight of its coming.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember the tags...


	6. The Wolves in Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Jaime arrives at Winterfell...

Jaime rode into a chill wind. 

He pushed the horse to run faster and harder, stopping only to feed and water the stallion briefly before pushing him toward Winterfell once more.  The vast, gray north slid by as the horse thundered beneath him.  Soon he saw the slanting sun and rode well into the night, finally stopping to give the beast a quick rub down, some more hay.  After, they sat around a small campfire eating strips of horsemeat and a clump of stale bread Alther kindly shared for their journey.  Then Jaime set to climbing.  It took four tries before he secured himself and Baby Girl in the fork of a tree. It was hard climbing with one hand, a babe strapped to his chest, but he willed himself up the broad trunk using the same rope he once hoped to end his life.  Baby Girl slept on his chest, nestling her head into his neck.  The poor babe was worn out from their hard ride to the Wolfswood and Jaime kissed her temple, something he had seen Weasel do many a time. 

Weasel.

 He saw the girl’s broken smile, her plain face rising in his mind and tears wet the hood covering he babe’s hair.  Jaime retraced their journey in his head, the finding of the girls, them dogging his trail when he tried to leave, Weasel refusing the safety of Riverrun.  He saw Weasel dead, his dragonglass dagger through a cold, blue eye.  For a while, his mind could not shake away the memory and he all he could see was the eye.  He forced his mind from the image, only to refight the battle, seeing her drop from the tree, trying for a way to reach her in time, feeling as if he waded through a sucking pool of thick mud.  Jaime closed his eyes and saw the sword aflame, silvery-blue, as in the dream.  He tried to recall the dream, the dream of Brienne.  A smile crept up from his beard.   _How warm she felt against my shoulder…_ Then he remembered his tongue bursting alive in the battle, bespelled with strange words and his smile died in the darkness.

_What does this mean, you blasted bastards?  What does this mean, you worthless gods and your useless fucking hold on our lives?  What does any of this mean?_

Jaime’s mind swirled with riddles and remembering as he listened to the babe’s soft snores.  His left hand clutched a dragonglass dagger and he slept in fits and starts between memories, watching and listening to the Wolfswood and the horse for any signs of nervousness or fear.  The only sound he heard that night was the distant howl of a wolf, a promise he was not far from Winterfell. 

He slid to the ground as soon as the sun rose over the gray horizon.  His body was stiff from his cramped night in the tree so he shook his arms and legs, rolled his neck and shoulders to bring life back to his limbs as the babe toddled beside him.  Then Jaime moved in silence as he prepared them for the day’s grim journey.  In the quiet, he fed and changed Baby Girl, trying in his thoughts for a way to make peace with the stillness pricking his broken heart.  If she were here, Weasel would be prattling a thousand questions and comments as they prepared to leave for the day’s trek.  But she was not here.  And the world seemed empty and dull as a withered husk without Weasel.  He knew as he felt the silence lance through him that he would miss forever her questions or taunts, her quick japes and cutting curses.  Jaime looked at the babe drooling over her food and forced himself to nip at a strip of meat and drink and then, another long ride into the chill wind, observing the passing Wolfswood through wind-tearing eyes.  

He saw the north was a wild place of little forgiveness and it was no wonder the Starks settled in these white and gray lands.  But there was a stark beauty here he could not deny.  It felt open to the heavens, even in the Wolfswood, rolling on and on through time.  His eyes could not hold all of it above and around him.  When he journeyed with Robert’s train, arrogance blinded him to the wonder of the vast, wide lands.  He remembered thinking the land rough and uncouth and the folk here, too, and all he looked for was Cersei’s smirking face winking at him from her waggon.  And now she was gone and the wild north might be his home…or his graveyard.  Jaime looked at the dark trees of the Wolfswood.  Bare branches huddled above them as they rushed toward Winterfell, reaching and scratching at the mottled gray sky.  The ground was patched with snow or clumps of frozen earth, gray grass dying beneath a hungry wind and failing sunlight.  But the sharp, deep contrasts of light and shadow were something out of a dream.  Jaime saw no deer or elk or grazing animals of any kind flashing their tails as they ran and hid.  And everywhere they passed in a pounding blur, the same story as that told in the Riverlands: abandoned huts, keeps, towns.

 _Maybe,_  thought Jaime,  _we are the only ones left alive in the world._

Then he saw a raven overhead, pushing into the wind, like them.  He prayed the bird carried Alther’s tales, warning the wolves to stay ready.

They spent another night in the trees, another night listening to howls between cold, dark quiet.  Jaime remembered, retraced, recalled what passed once more, Baby Girl sprawled across his chest.  Then another morning of stretching cramped limbs, another day giving thanks to the stern northern gods when they were spared to see the sun rise again.  He watched closely as Baby Girl ate every bite, swallowed every sip he gave her before riding.  The child was strangely quiet and listless, wrapped warmly as she rode in front of him, and Jaime prayed she was not falling ill.  This was the third day since the attack.  Jaime judged just another night in the trees and if these old gods were truly merciful, they would see the gates of Winterfell before the next night fell.  They came out of the wood into wide, open land before riding for another grove of trees.  The stallion was tired but strong and do not shirk from the challenge of Jaime pressing him.  He seemed to stretch out and gallop faster in the open space as any truly wild creature would.  Jaime remembered, with a laugh, this was a horse born of these hard northern lands and gave the beast his head. 

His laugh died in the rushing wind.

He saw them riding over the crest of a hill.  Before the host flapped two banners.  Yet on one, the white direwolf running on the field of gray was upside down.  Jaime’s eyes slid from the gaffe with a slow blink.  Between the two banners rode a man dressed in black, a white direwolf running at his side, a great pink tongue lolling between the beast’s open mouth.  Light glanced off the peaks of hammered bronze circling the man’s dark hair. Jaime saw the man, the crown, the size of the host and knew then that they were lost. His hand went to Widow’s Wail.  If he fought them, she would die, too.  Jaime pulled up his horse, drew his gleaming sword from his sheath--- and thrust it, like a spear, into the ground.  Then he moved the horse away from the blade, giving distance between himself and his weapon.

All he could do now was wait.  

The babe wriggled and began to fret.  “ _Hush_ ,” said Jaime, patting her belly, “You are fine, it will be fine.  I will not let them harm  _you_ , little one.  You are but an innocent babe, thank gods, without my last name.  But if only you could protect  _me_.” Baby Girl stopped wriggling and Jaime looked down to see if she was indeed fine.  He saw her wide, brown eyes watching as the Stark soldiers drew closer.  He followed her eyes from the King in the North to the upside down banner.  Her eyes stared at the white wolf on the sigil, the heavy cloth snapping in the wind.  Its four legs seemed to lope across the low clouds in the sky, a reflection of the king’s beast bounding across the land.

The rolling hooves of the soldiers’ horses drew nearer and nearer and a voice carried to Jaime on the wind.

_“Halt, in the name of the King in the North, Jon Snow!”_

Jaime raised his stump before the approaching soldiers but kept his hand firmly around Baby Girl.  The Stark soldiers reared up then flanked out around him and Jaime stopped counting when he got to fifty.  Jon Snow rode up the center of his men and faced Jaime, his full mouth an angry line, his gray eyes darker, sharper than the dragonglass daggers hidden inside Jaime’s cloak. The wolf stood beside its master, a growl rumbling from its throat as it peered at Jaime with blood-red eyes.  What could only be the commander of the host brought his horse behind the King’s mount.

“Jaime Lannister, we charge you with crimes against House Stark and the King in the North, Jon Snow!  In King Jon’s name, we arrest you, Kingslayer, and will keep you guarded at Winterfell where you will answer for your offenses.” The man looked at Jon Snow. 

The King nodded and spoke.   “Remove the child from the horse.”  The commander flicked his fingers to four soldiers.  Jaime made no movement as the men dismounted.  Swords gleamed in all four hands of the soldiers, their points aimed at places along his chest, head, throat and back.  Jaime’s eyes never left Jon Snow.  A man grown he seemed beneath that crown but Jaime could still see the dour boy--- _Ned’s bastard, truly_ \---as he remembered him so long ago at Winterfell.   Two more soldiers dismounted and came forward to grab his stallion’s reins and remove Baby Girl from her seat in front of Jaime.  They placed the babe on the ground. The girl was silent as her curly head swiveled between Snow and Jaime with wide, gray eyes.

_Gray?..._

“Remove the Kingslayer from his horse!” ordered the King.  He dismounted from his own steed and handed the reins to a waiting soldier.  Rough hands pulled Jaime from the horse by his chest, throwing him to the ground.  His face bounced against the frozen earth.  He looked up to see Widow’s Wail glinting in the pale sun.  The wolf stood beside the blade with bared teeth.

“Remain face down, Kingslayer!” yelled the commander, “or you will feel the white wolf slicing through your wicked, lying throat!”  A heavy boot crashed on the back of Jaime’s head, crushing his face into the ground.  The earth swallowed the sound of his groan.

“ _Jon, please!_    _Do not hurt him!_ ”

Gasps, cries, prayers to the gods rose up among the soldiers.  Jaime heard the ringing of steel being drawn from many scabbards.  The boot slipped and he craned his throbbing neck to see who spoke to the King with a young woman’s voice.

Jaime saw her now, clearly.  She was naked as her born day yet her hands did not scramble to cover her small breasts nor the dark hair at the cleft of her thin, pale thighs.  She did not shiver with cold, holding her compact body straight, tall and open, like the stance of a trained warrior.  But her eyes---her  _gray_  eyes--- stared back at him, then at Jon Snow. Her tearing eyes regarded both men, heavy with the weight of revelation and reunion.

Jaime gaped at her, ignoring her nakedness.  He ignored the change in height, the long face and dark, straight hair, the face of her dead father.  He stared only at the change in her eyes, the eyes he had loved to see sparkling up at him.

Gone were the brown eyes of Baby Girl. 

In their place, the gray eyes of the Starks, the Wolves of Winterfell. 

Jon Snow dropped to his knees.  All the soldiers on the ground dropped to one knee with their king.  Snow’s sword clattered from his hand to the earth, his mouth open.  Tears brimmed then fell from his eyes. “The raven we received from Deepwood Motte,” he whispered, “said nothing of…of  _you_.  It said the Kingslayer was coming with a babe, a girl but it never said anything about…about… _oh, gods_ …”  His voiced choked on a sob.  “ _Arya_?  _Arya?_   Is it truly  _you_?”

She turned toward the King.  “Truly,” said the girl, though Jaime barely heard her answer.  Long tears slid down her cheeks.  “I am your sister.   Arya Stark.  Arya Stark of Winterfell.”  Jon Snow stared at the girl, his eyes blown wide in wonder then gathered her into his arms.  He stepped back only long enough for a soldier to come forward, sliding her wiry arms through a fur coat.  Arya fastened it closed with trembling fingers then threw herself once more into her brother’s open arms.  They clutched each other’s shoulders, tightening their crushing hold as the direwolf danced in a circle around them.

After a long moment, Jon Snowed pulled back to stare into the girl’s eyes.  A smile blazed across his face, making him even more handsome.  “Arya!   _Arya!_  Oh, gods, can it be true?  Sansa and Rickon are waiting at Winterfell!  Another wolf has come  _home_!”

“Yes, I am home, Jon!  And Bran?”

The light died in his smile.  He shook his head and Arya only nodded before slipping her arms around him once again.  Jon lifted her off the ground before setting her down to look at her closely.  His eyes roved wildly over what became of Arya Stark.  “We have heard some of your journey from Lady Brienne but  _where_  are you clothes, where have you been, what  _happened_  to you-,”

“I will explain but did she bring-,”

A sharp bark of laughter cut off her words.  They turned as one to look at Jaime Lannister, still on the ground.

Jaime stared at them.  He stared at  _her_  for a long moment.  Then the laugh on his lips curled up and away from bared teeth.  The wolf stalked forward and growled, crouching low as if to leap.

“Ser Jaime,  ** _NO_**!  Please, the wolf-,”

But Jaime did not care to listen.  

Words were wind.  And he was a lion. 

Like a thousand bursting suns bursting into new suns, rage melted the world around him in white, blinding light.  Roaring, Jaime launched his body from the ground.  He reached inside his cloak and whipped out the black dagger.  The wolf pounced with a snap of its teeth just inches from Jaime’s face, knocking him back, the dagger flying from his hand.  Jaime’s eyes flew to Widow’s Wail.   He found his feet with a guttural scream but he was yanked back, dragged away from the Valyrian blade.  A choking arm tightened around his neck and cut off his breath.  And now the snarling, snapping wolf stood between him and the sword.

_“Ghost, no!  Please!  Do not hurt him!  Jon, please! Do not let them hurt him!”_

Jaime felt thought slipping from him mind as he gagged, felt his world growing blacker and colder as he struggled to breathe, straining against the arm to reach his sword and drive it through her chest.

**"JON!  THEY WILL KILL HIM!  ORDER THEM TO RELEASE HIM!  NOW!"**

Jaime beat at the arm around his throat.

“Release the Kingslayer.”

Jaime fell forward as two soldiers released his neck but twisted his arms behind his back.  Cold air rushed into his mouth.  Jaime felt it burn his throat as tears streamed from his eyes.  “You lying, traitorous bitch!” he panted.   "You could have helped me save her!  I should have let them have you, let them hurt you, let them kill you-," Jon Snow was there in a moment, cracking him across the jaw and Jaime tasted blood filling his mouth as his knees staggered.

“Do not hurt him, Jon!  Please!” She stepped closer to Jaime and the soldiers holding him.  “He is under my protection and I will not have him harmed!” 

 Jon turned to stare at her.  “Your  _protection_?  How is that possible?  Arya, this is the  _Kingslayer_.  This is a  _Lannister_.  The same Lannisters that took Father’s head.  How can you protect _him_?”

“Jon, I will explain-,”

“Explain, what?” sneered Jaime.  “That you’re a lying, dirty, shape changing wolf bitch-,”  The soldiers twisted his arms and his curses died in a grunt.

 “Ser Jaime, please, _please_ stop-,”

The commander sidled up to King Jon, his voice low.  “Forgive me, Your Grace, but the Kingslayer has the truth of it.  Arya Stark is believed dead.  And this… _girl_ …does appear to be a shape changer.  How do we know she is as she claims?  Perhaps this is some fell glamor of the Boltons?”

 Jon Snow’s eyes never wavered as he stared at her.   He broke his gaze to look at the commander.  “I have heard Lady Brienne’s report of my sister’s recent sighting in the Riverlands.  And you are not from the north, Ser Aric, but the north remembers its own.”  He returned his eyes to Arya and smiled.  “I remember Arya Stark,” he said.  “I remember my own sister, my own blood.  As does Ghost.  To me, Ghost!”

The direwolf wheeled from guarding Widow’s Wail to stand beside Jon Snow.  Then he walked forward, sniffing at Arya’s bare toes and nuzzling against her leg before lying down on his great back, showing the girl his soft, pink belly.  She knelt and scratched the tender skin, Ghost wiggling in delight before they both stood.  Ghost returned to guarding Widow’s Wail.

“There is your proof,  _fool_ ,” she snapped at Ser Aric.  “During my time on an errand, Ser Jaime Lannister came to be under my protection-,”

“You lying bitch!” Jaime screamed at her and received another cracking blow from the King, this time to his ribs.

“So is this how she came to be with you, Kingslayer?  Did you use some spell to entrance and kidnap my sister?”  He pulled back as if to strike him again.

Arya grabbed Jon’s arm.  “No, Jon,  ** _NO_!**   Ser Jaime, you  _must_  stop talking!  Jon, you  _must_  stop hitting him!  I will explain, but you both  _must_  stop-,”

“After all that has happened, after I  _saved_  you, after we burned the poor girl-,”

“Ser Jaime,  ** _NO_!** ” Arya screamed as the King reached to snatch up his sword.  He leveled the steel at Jaime’s chest, his broad chest heaving with angry breaths.  All the other blades aimed at Jaime in response.

“You burned a  _child_ …a little  _girl_?”  Jon’s eyes narrowed in disbelief.  “That is astonishing even for  _you_ , Kingslayer.  Jaime Lannister, you will pay with your life for enchanting and kidnapping the Princess Arya Stark and burning an innocent!  I will be honored to place your head on a spike above the battlements of Winterfell as our Father’s once rotted above the Red Keep.   _Kneel_!”  Two hard kicks brought Jaime swiftly to his knees as Jon stepped forward.  Arya grabbed her brother’s arm with both hands, the thick coat tangling around her knees. 

“Jon, please listen to me.   _He must be spared_.”

“ _He_  must be spared?   **He is the _Kinglslayer_ , Arya**!”  He fought to gain control by slowing and quieting his breaths.  “Did they spare Robb?” he bit out, an icy whisper.  “Did they spare your lady mother?”

“I know it hurts,” she said, clutching his arm.  “I _know_.  But you  _must_  spare him, Jon.   _Please_.”

Jon Snow looked at her then Jaime Lannister.  Jaime struggled as they held him on his knees.  He spat, a great slimy red glob pooling near him on the ground.  Jon’s voice was gentle but firm as he turned and spoke to Arya, cupping her cheek against his hand.  “Sister, forgive me my raised voice.  I only need look at you to know you have suffered much on your journey with our enemy.   And I understand that some hostages may undergo an affinity for their captors, especially one such as the Kingslayer.  But he  _kidnapped_ you and  _enchanted_  you and _burned_  a child.”  Jon turned and directed his words to Jaime.  “And you will pay the price, here,  _now_  for daring to touch Arya of House Stark.  It is my duty as her brother, as her  _king_ , to take vengeance.” He pulled away from her and stalked toward Jaime, his Valyrian steel sword glittering with cold beauty.

“Jon,  ** _NO_**!” She threw herself between the lion and the White Wolf, pushing her brother back from Jaime Lannister.

The King stopped and swallowed thickly. Confusion widened his eyes as he looked at her. “You would fight  _me,_ your own true blood, to protect the  _Kingslayer_?  After he _raped_ you, _dishonored_ you, _burned_ the other girl-,”

“You think I raped  _her_?” Jaime laughed, a bitter thing, into the wind.  He swayed like a drunk man on his knees. “She is too long in the face for my liking,  _boy_.  It would be like fucking poor _dead_  Ned.”  Jon wrenched free of his sister with a curse, raising his sword as if to strike. 

But Arya moved between them. 

With a roar, she sprang forward, cracking Jaime across his temple.  Jaime felt an instant of searing, blinding pain, before he slid into darkness.

 

************************************************************

 

Jaime woke with a throbbing jaw and winced when he moved, jostling his ribs.  His head hurt, too, and he gasped when he touched the tender spot on his temple that radiated hot streaks of pain down the side of his face and into his stiff neck.  He uncurled from his side, using the heel of his hand to sit up.  

He was in a cell.

Another cell, another Stark.  

Jaime could laugh but he knew it would hurt too much.  He looked up then, past the bars.  

No, not a Stark.  

A Snow. 

Jon Snow sat on a low stool just beyond the thick bars.  The red-eyed white wolf beside him gave a low growl deep in its throat.  Now that he was calmer, Jaime could see the boy more clearly.  The crown still encircled his head, the nine points ringing it in hammered bronze shone in the flickers from the torches. Snow’s dark hair was pulled into a low bun at the nape of his strong neck.  A dark beard covered his square jaw, a dark sable cloak thrown around his broad shoulders. His full lips pursed at Jaime in disgust. Snow regarded him coldly with his hard, gray eyes, slanting up in the corners, like a cat’s.

_Still as pretty as a sloe-eyed maid.  But a man grown.  And calling himself a king…_

Jaime decided then and there to wait, for once, before speaking.  The boy had his knees crossed as he leaned back against a pillar, his wrists crossed and draped over his knees.  The wolf’s glowing eyes never left Jaime’s face.  A waiting pose, both man and beast.

_Let them wait awhile longer…_

Widow’s Wail, of course, was gone, along with his cloak and the dragonglass daggers inside it.  He remained in his tunic, jacket and breeches and all his other belongings were gone, too. Jaime made a show of looking around the cell, taking in the fresh rushes beneath him, a clean, empty bucket, two thick woolen blankets and a soft roll for his head.  The cell, while chilly, was not cold.  He had known cold on this journey and knew it came with blue, blue eyes.  He thought of Weasel and he thought of Arya, Brienne and he composed himself from his hurting heart and anger before turning his narrowed eyes to Jon Snow.

“Where is Lady Brienne?”

“Still arrogant as ever, Kingslayer.  You have no right to any questions.  Did you push my brother Bran from that tower?”

“Of course I did.”

“ _Why_?  He was but a boy.  He could not harm you.”  Hurt lanced through his question.

Jaime sneered at him.  “Ah, but he could.  And armed only with an ill-timed word.  So I did what I did for the same reason you do as you do now.  For the same reason want my head.  For love.”

Jon’s jaw clenched.  “For justice.”

Jaime rolled his eyes and said nothing.

“Did you dishonor my sister?”

Jaime stood.  His head swam as he felt the blood rushing upward and staggered to the low stool in the corner. Jon Snow smiled at his weakness.

“I don’t  _rape_  little girls, Stark-,”

“But you  _do_  push little boys to their deaths-,”

“Or is it  _Snow_?”  Now, it was Jaime’s turn to smile as Jon’s faded into his beard. Jaime tilted his head in mock wondering.  “Yes, you’re a  _Snow_  aren’t you?”

“Aye.  And the King in the North.  So  _Your Grace_  will do, Kingslayer.”

“Yes, well, if Arya Stark can  _magick_  herself into a babe then I suppose you can  _magick_ yourself into a king.  Congratulations, bastard.  You are proof that dreams do indeed come true. Where is Lady Brienne?”

“Did you rape my sister?”

“No,” Jaime snarled.  “I have done many despicable things in my time on this wretched earth but rape, of a girl no less, is not among them.  I like  _women_ , Snow, women that like me, too.  I like big, strapping, blonde, mulish women who are good with swords.  Do you know any women like that?  Perhaps one is  _stomping_  about your castle?”

“I thought you liked fucking your  _sister._ ”

“Oh, I did.  Very much.  But you see, when you take the word ‘like’ and put a ‘d’ at the end of it, that means in the past.  As in, a long time ago.”

“I don’t need a grammar lesson from you, Kingslayer.”

“Then open this cell, put a sword in my hand and see what other lessons I have to teach you.”

Jon smiled.  “But you are right where I want you.  Do you take me for a fool?”

Jaime scoffed, a tight laugh.  “Is that a  _real_  question?  Of course, I do.  All you dogs are foolish to me, pretending to be wolves.”

Jon stood abruptly, knocking over his stool, his face a wonder of fury.  The wolf crouched on his haunches and bared his teeth at Jaime.  The light from the torches glinted off their shiny points.  The beast growled and pushed his snout through the bars until Jon pulled him back to sit.  The growling stopped but the beast still curled his lips, showing his desire to taste blood. “If we are the foolish ones, Kingslayer,” scowled Jon, “why did you come alone to your enemy?”

“ _Alone_?” said Jaime through his teeth.  “I did not come  _alone_.  I came with your lying, treacherous shape-shifting sister.”

“I grow tired of your word play, Jamie Lannister.  You know what I am asking you.  Why did you come here?”

Jaime sighed, but hitched his breath to a gasp when he felt it push against his bruised rib.  He put his hand there and grimaced. “The sooner you leave me, the sooner I can go back to sleep.”

“Tell me.”

Jaime said nothing.

“Tell me true.”

Jaime leaned his head against the stone wall and turned to look at Jon Snow.  “You would not believe me anyway, boy.  What did that _treacherous_ Arya tell you after your  _tearful_  reunion?  After she knocked me unconscious?”

“A ridiculous tale.  I would have the truth from you.”

Jaime looked at him, said nothing.

Jon narrowed his gray eyes.  The wolf seemed to mimic his master.  “You would have me believe the  _Kingslayer_ came all the way from King’s Landing, through hunger and death for the Lady Brienne of Tarth?”

Anger surged through Jaime, for he was tired of their judgement, this trick of Arya’s and this thin slight to Brienne, the last straw.  “You dishonor and clearly don’t know Lady Brienne if you think her not worthy of such devotion.  Yes, Snow, I came all this way,  _to the gates of my enemy_ , for Lady Brienne.  As a  _king_ , I would hope you learn to believe the truth when you hear it.  The truth is simple.  I came to Winterfell for love.”

Jon stared at him.  “You are brazen, Kingslayer.  But I will not believe your lies.”

“You make it sound like being  _brazen_ is a bad thing.  Only, do the calculations,  _your grace_.  Why else would I come to this  _wretched_  place?  For the great love  _you_  bear for  _me_?”

“You had nowhere else to go.”

“Oh, is that what Arya told you, then?  Well, she was wrong.  I could have packed my pockets with heavy stones and went for a long swim in the sea.”

Jon turned to leave, the wolf at his heels.  “Fine.  Hold true to your lies, Kingslayer.  But you owe _treacherous_  Arya, not me, for this gentle treatment of you in your cell.  It is more than what you gave my lord father.”

Jaime tried to sigh again but put a hand against his side to stop himself in mid-breath.  “I  _hated_  your brooding father.  Oh,  _gods_!  He was boring and sullen but I did not want him dead.  No, that was Joffrey.  And Joffrey was a stupid, vicious monster.”

“He was your _son_.”

“Ah, but the  _great_  Robert Baratheon raised him.  Robert, with his whores and boars and cruelty.  Your lord father’s _best_ friend.  Between him and Cersei, the boy never stood a chance. ”

Jon drew himself up.  “And I am _my_  father’s son.”

Jaime stared at him.  “Truly.  But what of your  _mother_?  Some tavern slut?  A milkmaid, perhaps?  Do you even know?”

“I know when Longclaw is swung at your neck it will be  _my_  hand holding it.”

Jaime shrugged, his voice soft.  “Of course.  When might I see Lady Brienne?”

Jon’s smile was a vicious, feral thing and for a moment, Jaime feared she was dead or gone to Tarth.  But what the boy told him slashed a new, fresh wound across his heart.  “She doesn’t want to see you.”

Jaime swallowed thickly.  “You won’t _let_  her see me or she won’t come?”  Jon, still smiling, said nothing.  Even the wolf looked at Jaime with smug regard.   Jaime scowled. “Lady Brienne would never desert me.  Now who’s the liar, Snow?”

“I wish I could see your face when you learn the truth, Kingslayer.”  Jaime stared at him, praying he could slip his hand through the bars and choke that smile from the boy’s lips.  The wolf seemed to sense his desire and a growl rumbled across the cell.  Jon stilled the beast with a scratch of his fingers on the top of the head.  The direwolf fell silent at once but never took his eyes from Jaime.  “And one last thing, Kingslayer.  Arya said there was a girl.  But she wouldn’t say more.  What happened to her?”

If it hadn’t been for those damned scales, the woolen cap, Jaime would have kept silent.  Instead he said, “Weasel.  Her name was Weasel.  Did the letter from Deepwood Motte mention the White Walkers?”

Jon nodded.

“Then you know.  And know they are soon coming here, too.”

Jon, silent, considered Jaime through the bars and he knew the boy weighed his own scales.  But Jaime was tired, his side aching.  He crawled from the stool to the pallet on the floor and lay on his back, gasping as he shifted for comfort.  He saw Jon and the beast still watching him from the corner of his eye.  Jaime turned his head away from them, dismissing the white wolf and the King in the North.  He closed his eyes, wishing he felt a warm, heavy hand on his shoulder.

And with a sigh, he slept.

 

 

***********************************************************

 Jaime woke at the sound of boots scraping outside the cell.  The door opened and soon hands were gently lifting him from the pallet on the floor and propping him against the stonewall. Then a fat, huffing maester loomed over Jaime, looking for any more visible wounds before touching him.   The man named himself Samwell Tarly. 

“Are you a relation to Lord Randyll Tarly, by chance?”  Jaime murmured up at the maester.  He could see little resemblance between the hardened Lord of Horn Hill and this soft mound of a man beside him but the name made him wonder.

The maester nodded, jowls wobbling.  “My father.  Although he may call it ill luck rather than chance at having me for his son.”

Jaime stared at the man, thinking of Tywin and his eternal scowls.  “And you would not be the first man to think the same of his father, truly.”  Samwell Tarly blinked at Jaime then smiled. Jaime closed his eyes and wished he had kept quiet.

Three guards came with Maester Tarly and chained Jaime in heavy chains through a thick loop on the floor.  The maester’s hands were soft and gentle as they examined his ribs, his jaw and especially his temple.  But Jaime decided, as the maester bent close, listening to the man breathing slowly near his left ear, that anyone in allegiance to the Starks were nothing but fleas riding these northern dogs.  No matter if they were cursed with tyrants for fathers or how kindly or cheerful they seemed.  He looked at Maester Tarly from the corner of his left eye.

 _Although the fat oaf might tell me_ … “Where is Lady Brienne?  When might I see her?”

“I am sorry, Ser Jaime, but I am only to speak to you of your condition.  As it were, Princess Arya asked me to tell you she’s sorry about this.”  He pressed softly on Jaime’s temple.  “She just needed you to stop talking before they killed you.”

Jaime stared at him until the man reddened and turned to look for something in his satchel.  “Interesting.  My  _condition_.  Jon Snow never offered apologies for my  _condition_.  But I am glad to learn Arya, at least, is sorry.  Did Arya also tell you she is sorry for her lies?  Her deceit?  Her treachery?”  The maester said nothing and kept rummaging in his bag.

In the end, the ribs were only deeply bruised, not broken, nor his jaw.  As for his head, the blow likely jarred his brain, wobbled it around in his skull and the best cure for it was rest, quiet and not thinking too much.

Jaime narrowed his eyes at the fat maester.  “Let’s see,” said Jaime, “I fucked my sister, we had three bastards, passed them off as the king’s children which led to the fall of seven kingdoms, I’m rotting in a northern prison cell, awaiting certain death by some boy who wants me dead because my son killed his father, I traveled unbeknownst with an assassin who can change her face, height, everything at a moment’s notice, I burned a girl I came to love to save her from turning into a white walker and the woman I love won’t see me.  Yes, I shouldn’t have too much to think about.”

The maester blinked at him.  “That sounds like quite a bit to think about, actually.”

“I was being sarcastic, you fool,” Jaime scowled.

“Right.  Sorry.”  The big man lumbered to stand.  “I will send you some willow bark tea for the pain every four hours.  Make sure you drink it all and rest.”

“Oh,” said Jaime with a whine, “and here I was planning to jog vigorously around my cell.”

The maester blinked at him again then smiled.  “A jape.”

“Yes, a jape.  Perhaps you aren’t as slow as you look.”  Jaime took in the girth of the man from head to toe. “And you look  _very_  slow.”

“Do you always jest and make mock of other people?” asked the maester.  He cocked his rather large head to the side and sounded genuinely curious.

“Of course I do.  I’m a  _Lannister_.  We are known throughout the kingdoms for our green eyes, our golden hair, our coffers of gold to  _match_  our hair and our vicious wit.”

“Hmmm.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes.  “What does that mean, ‘hmmm?’’

“I just wonder, is all.”

“And what is it you wonder, Maester Tarly?  What time is your next meal?”

“No, I always know what time the next meal is served, ser.  I wonder, though, how you truly feel about  _yourself_  if you think so little of others.”  Jaime only stared at him.  The maester continued.  “When you mock other people, you think you are better than them.”

Anger flared in Jaime.   _There are no men like me._  “I  _am_  better than them,” he snarled. 

“No, you’re not.  Oh, sure, we can be better at  _things_  than other people.  You at swords.  Me at reading.  Jon at…well, pretty much everything.  But that doesn’t make us better  _people_.  It just makes us better at those  _things_.  You wouldn’t know it but I killed a white walker once.”

Jaime gaped at him, willing himself to believe this fat, red-faced man---who couldn’t face down a tulip and could be easily defeated by a short flight of stairs---could stand against a white walker and not go screaming mad into the night.

“It’s true,” the fat man said, glimpsing Jaime’s thoughts behind his green eyes.  “I saved myself, my Gilly and our little Sam.  And I brought them back safely from beyond the Wall.”

There was a silence, then, and Jaime heard the sound of the guttering torches along the hall.  “Why are you telling me this, Maester Tarly?”

“Because you never know who you serve and who serves you, Ser Jaime.  What people have seen and done to stand before you.  I know that you have seen and done a lot.  As has King Jon.  Princess Arya.  Even me.  And I will respect you and serve you the best I can with my knowledge of healing.  And you  _will_ respect me as I serve you.”  The maester gave him a smile but Jaime felt the steel in his words.

He swallowed and said nothing.  So  _there is more Randyll Tarly in him then perhaps both of them know…_

Before the maester began his examination of Jaime, he ordered two buckets of hot water and towels brought to the cell, a bar of soap and clean, warm clothes.  When they arrived, Maester Tarly washed the blood from Jaime’s mouth and beard, lathed his ribs in warm water, making Jaime grunt and sigh.  The maester hummed as he washed his hand, cleaning the black from under his fingernails.  He scrubbed Jaime’s back and turned his own when Jaime removed his filthy breeches to clean in privacy.  He helped Jaime into the warm, clean clothing and ordered the floor mopped of any water while he settled his patient to rest on the stool.  

The jolly maester looked at a cleaned, freshened Jaime Lannister and spread his fat hands.  “So.  Your tea should arrive shortly.  Remember to drink it all.”  He picked up his satchel then turned and waddled from the cell, stopping and facing Jaime in the entrance.  “And please try and rest, Ser Jaime.”  He moved to leave but Jaime stopped him.

“Maester Tarly, please.  A moment.”

The maester looked at him expectantly.

“Did…your king…mention my sword?  What happened to it when I fought the White Walkers?”

He nodded.  “Yes.  A quite vivid description in the letter from the Motte.  We are examining the sword now.  Some of the runes on the blade I can decipher but there is much here I do not know.”

“There were words, too, words I said, in a language I never heard and did not understand.  But they seemed to drive the beasts back as much as the sword.”

“The sword was made from Ned Stark’s great sword, Ice, was it not?”

Jaime swallowed, suddenly ashamed, remembering his father’s glee at possessing the Stark sword as the price of Eddard Stark’s head.  “Yes.  As was Lady Brienne’s Oath Keeper.”

“Then they are swords of the north.  Made for work in the north.  And though I was raised in the Seven, the old gods rule here, Ser Jaime.  That is all I know.  The rest, I shall think on.”

He looked at the maester. Jaime felt his own eyes soften, a slight flicker.  “Thank you.”

The maester smiled and said nothing as he stepped from the cell.  A guard closed the door with a clang and locked it with a huge key on a heavy ring.  Jaime watched the maester leave, heard his robes swishing down the dark corridor of the dungeon, the fall of his heavy, flat feet in counterpoint to a song he hummed.  Jaime sat in the quiet gloom, thinking of the world’s treatment of people like the gentle Samwell Tarly and Tyrion and Brienne.   _And yet the world loves a beautiful fool like Cersei, like Renly…like me..._

His tea did arrive as promised, along with a thick, savory stew of dried vension softened in the simmering, with huge golden chunks of potatoes and firm carrots.  Next to his deep bowl sat a large slice of chewy black bread, slathered with butter.  It hurt his jaw to chew quickly but Jaime couldn’t help it, he had always loved good bread and this bread was delicious.  The bread had a warm, crunchy crust that left flaky crumbs on the front of his tunic.  He picked them off and ate every one.  In a small bowl was a puddle of sweet golden applesauce and Jaime almost cried as he ate it, thinking of how Baby Girl would have loved the bright flavor, soft texture of the softened fruit.  He stopped then ate again, dragging his spoon for the last of the sauce in angry scrapes across the bottom of bowl.  He stared into the empty bowl and vowed never to forgive the treachery of Arya Stark, never forgive the lying wolf-bitch for making him care for a child who was not even  _real_.  He drank the flagon of cool water and felt the tea begin to work on dulling his pain as the food left him full and sleepy.  He laid down on the clean, firm bedroll, arranging the thick blankets around him as he nestled into the pillow.  If he was going to die, this was the way to go and better than he deserved.  Only seeing the wench could make it better.  _Perhaps_ , he thought, trying not to hurt his jaw with a yawn,  _perhaps, she will see me tomorrow…_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alien can blend right on in with your kin  
> Look again 'cause I swear I spot one every now and then...
> 
> -Andre Lauren Benjamin, "Aquemini"


	7. The Shadow Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Arya Stark listens but does she learn?...

Walder Frey was dead.

Arya could not stop the smile spreading wide even if she wanted.  The feel of his life’s blood spilling warm across her hand was one of the greatest pleasures had in life, better even than blinding Meryn Trant.  Her hand itched with remembering the handle and the wicked point of her dagger as she dragged it under the jowls in Frey’s neck, choking him on his own blood.  She heard the squish of her blade stabbing through Trant’s eye sockets as she brought the knife down, over and over again.  The grubby King’s Guard cowered like the young girls he beat then raped, their young pelvises savaged from his brutal thrusts.  Arya remembered him whimpering like a beaten dog, pleading for his worthless life and a giggle bubbled up from her chest.  The giggle faded as she walked, pursing her lips in thought of the last two names.  Killing Trant and Frey proved easy.  All she need do was prey on their desire, their lust for pain and pleasure.  She thought of the last two names and knew they would be harder to kill.  Her plan must be subtle, a shift in the shadows, a trick of the light.  A frisson of longing tripped down her spine and she quickened her steps as she trekked south through the Riverlands.  Her brother and sister vanquished the Boltons, the whispers said close to open ears.  The Dragon Queen sailed home, she heard on the wind, coming with Dothraki screamers for King’s Landing.  She must reach the city before the dragons.  She would not let them steal away the last two names, would not let them steal the feel of their blood on her fingers, splattering warm and salty in her mouth, spilling bright across the tiles on the Red Keep’s floor.  She would not let Daenerys Targaryen steal the moment when they knew, their eyes blown wide with fear, that whatever left of their lives belonged to her.  

The Handmaiden of Braavos.  

The last two names came unbidden to her mind for in truth, they were always there, side by side with the name of her father and mother and brother.  She smiled once more.  The two living would pay for those who were murdered, balancing the scales with cold vengeance.  And with the Lannisters dead or crippled or sided with the Dragon Queen and the Hound left to die, who would avenge Cersei Lannister and Gregor Clegane when Arya Stark came for them?  Arya’s smile deepened.  She wondered what face she would wear when they finally paid their debts.

Arya heard the sound then, the smile slipping from her face.

The two names receded from hearing and she heard it again, the sound of metal ringing against metal.  The rush of the Green Fork almost drowned the sound beneath the rolling waters but she heard it once more.  The sound of fighting.  And she heard shouts, too, rising up from the side of the road.  Vengeance bid her ignore the sound, tugging her steps south to King’s Landing but for once she heard no names, only the sound of steel meeting steel and the cries and grunts of a melee.  She crept from the edge of the river, following the sounds and glanced through the trees.  Arya saw an inn.  Faces peered down from grimy windows, eyes and mouths open with fear.  Arya followed their eyes from behind to the window to see a woman and a young man standing in the yard, blocking the inn’s stairs, a sword and battle axe in their hands.  The two bounced on bent knees, as if ready to spring.  They faced a half-circle of men creeping forward.  Arya counted seven men and seven weapons in each hand and realized the sound she heard was the men pushing these two back.   She gasped as her eyes fixed on the woman.  She had wondered what happened to the only woman strong enough to beat the Hound at swords and yet live.  Now she knew.  The woman stood a head and shoulders above the men closing them inside the trap, the young man gripping tighter the battle axe at her side.  His face was ashen with fear but his lips were curled in a grim line, baring his teeth at their attackers.  The woman’s blue armor shone a strange purple in the light of the setting sun as two men feinted and thrust at her with their swords.  Her blonde hair was plastered to her scowling face, the strands darker where sweat dripped into her bright, blue eyes.  The men called her foul, filthy names, laughing at her fear as they tightened the circle.  One of the men came forward, his helm barely covering the hole in the middle of his face.

“Did they cut off your manhood when they took your nose?” she said to him.

“You’ll soon see, you ugly bitch,” he croaked.  “Keep this up and I’ll make you watch as I fuck the boy bloody with this blade.  Then you’ll feel me cock before I shove my dagger in your cunt.”  He jabbed his weapon at her and palmed his crotch.  Arya gasped again, praying this was a dream.  Sometimes, she still heard that voice in her nightmares and the only way to silence the rumbling laugh was to slip a blade through Rorge’s throat even in her sleep.  Fear sliced at Arya but she whispered the words to her own quailing heart, moving the leaves on a bush with her breath. 

“Fear cuts deeper than swords, boy.” 

She crept forward on quiet, cat feet, dropping her pack and reaching into her boots when she saw a figure shifting from the corner of her eye.  The men were so intent on the woman, they did not see the young man inching closer to them, a thick spear in this blackened hands, blacker than the hair spilling over his forehead and into his icy blue eyes.

Arya’s heart leapt from her chest and her steps faltered as she skidded to a stop.  She gasped for the third time and almost called out his name.

But with a roar he sprang from hiding and three of the men spun and whirled to face him.  Two more men wheeled and came at the young man with the axe.  Now that the situation may not end in blood and pain for their prey, the Brave Companions knew to end the fight.  Biter and Rorge and another man rushed at Brienne of Tarth.  Arya saw the black haired man slash and parry and jab with this spear and knew she must act now. The man had strength, yes, of a bull, truly, but little skill in wielding the weapon.  A hammer was more to his liking.  Arya scurried from the trees, her feet soundless on the leaves and twigs beneath her boots.

_Swift as a deer…_

Then Arya was in the yard, pulling daggers from their sheaths inside her boots.  No one saw her coming.  With a flick of her hand, a dagger flew from her fingers, striking a man hard in the small of his back as he fought the young man.  The brigand fell forward and before the other two men could turn around, she pulled the knife free from his spine and threw it and the other dagger, striking both Brave Companions in the center of their chests.  Two men ran from behind the inn, footfalls heavy as they pounded at black-haired young man.

“Arya?!”

“Behind you!” she screamed at Gendry.  “Finish them!”  She had barely screamed the words before she whipped to fight Rorge and another man.  Rorge smiled with pleasure as he tossed his sword from hand to hand, flexing the muscles beneath his hairy arms.  He stalked forward on strong, squat legs. “Well, if it isn’t the little horse-faced bitch.  Too bad you didn’t leave us to burn in that fire, you mangy whore.  Too bad indeed.  Seems I will get to fuck you bloody after all.  And when I’m finished, I’ll give you to my Biter for supper.”  The other man laughed.  Fear choked in Arya’s throat but she pushed it out with a deep breath, remembering who she was _now_.   Once upon a time, she was Arry, Arry the Orphan with only a few dancing lessons to defend against monsters like Rorge and Walder Frey.  Now she was No One, a disciple of the Faceless Men, devout handmaiden to the Many-Faced God.

The God of Death. 

And she wanted these men dead. 

With another deep breath, her fear faded to nothing. 

Syrio Forel’s lilting voice danced through her mind as he once danced with his sword.

_The man who fears losing has already lost.  What do we say to the God of Death, boy?_

From the side of her right eye,she saw Gendry fighting for his life and knew she must not lose.

“Not today,” she answered her dancing teacher.  “Not today.”  Instead, she would offer her god the names and faces of Rorge and his Brave Companions, names she should have given a long time ago.

Arya shifted her eyes and saw the young man with the axe fighting an attacker as Rorge and the other man circled around her.  The young man brought his axe down in a heaving arc but the hulking man stepped on his wrist and Arya heard the crack and a wailing scream.  The young man was trapped, his wrist pinned to the ground and his fat attacker was choking him, a huge hand clamped around his throat. His other hand, the size and shape of a hog’s hock, brought a dagger to his eye.

“Pod **, NO**!” screamed Brienne of Tarth.  She hacked and lunged at Biter and two other men, sweat flicking from her hair and face as she fought to reach her squire.  Arya knew she would never save the young man in time.  Arya seemed to rise out of herself then, seemed to see the battle from above, like a bird, from all angles.  She saw Gendry using brute strength to overpower his assailants but knew from his labored breath he would soon falter. She saw the hunger in Biter’s slit eyes and knew his lust made him stronger than the woman realized, stronger than even the Hound.    She saw the fat man’s fingers as they guided the dagger to Pod’s eye, guiding it with certainty through an invisible point in his brain and out the back of the squire’s head. 

They were all out of time.

Arya slipped back to earth, into her mind.

She did not feel the knife falling loose inside her sleeve and into her open palm, did not see the knife leave her hand as if attached to her thoughts.  It flew between both her attackers before finding its mark in the Brave Companions skull, sticking in the fat man’s temple.  He fell forward, crushing Pod.  Pod buckled beneath his dead weight with a grunt.

“Zollo!” yelled the man fighting with Biter.  He turned on Pod with a snarl.

“Bitch!” screamed Rorge, whipping his head at Arya as the two men pressed forward.  Her last dagger was in one hand and Needle in the other as they fell upon her with curses, snapping at Arya like wild dogs.  Arya danced away from their points, dropping to the ground to roll beneath their swords.  She rolled to her knees and brought her knife across the back of the other man’s calf.  He screamed and thudded to the ground, his sword slashing at her arm.  But he moved too late.   A flash of steel over his windpipe gurgled the scream beneath a spurt of blood.    
Arya was on her feet in a blink.  Rorge screamed curses and rebukes, flecks of spittle flying from his wormy lips as he hacked and hacked and hacked at her with a dented sword.  She danced away from his blade, breathing calmly as taught by Syrio and the Faceless Men and waited, like a crouching cat, for her opening.  She saw it when he brought his weapon over his head with both hands, his hideous face twisted in fury.  Arya ran him through with her sword, the hilt jutting from the soft place just underneath his ribcage.  His eyes flew open, round and red as a harvest moon.  He brought his arms down, his sword clattering to the ground as he gripped the hilt but Arya slipped to his side and twisted Needle even deeper into his gut.  He groaned as blood burbled on his lips.   

She smiled at the sight.  He was close enough to kiss, to taste the blood dribbling down his chin.  “Rorge,” she whispered to the man and her god, her breath warm against Rorge’s hairy neck.  He tried to answer, a string of curses no doubt, but he could not push his words past the blood filling his mouth and throat.  Arya watched him struggle for a second more and wished his suffering would go on forever.  Her eyes fixed on Rorge, burned him into her memory, her gaze soft as a lover’s.  He slumped to his knees.  Arya did not see him then, her eyes pinned to Rorge’s bloody, gaping lips.  With a roar, he sprang at her, knocking the wind from her lungs as she hit the ground and her head bounced against a rock.  Her knife flew across the yard. 

“You fucking whore!  I’ll kill you!  I’ll kill you!”

Biter beat her hands against the ground and Needle slipped from her fingers.  He pinned Arya beneath him, the points of his sharpened, slavering teeth glistening and straining to sink into her cheek as he held both wrists to the ground. 

“Not today!” she screamed as she tried to free her hips, bucking him off of her, twisting her face away from his teeth.

Gendry whipped his neck to the sound of her scream but the Brave Companion used this distraction to his advantage.  He flew at Gendry and gave him a vicious backhand across the face. The yard filled with what Arya hoped was not the sound of teeth crunching loose in the young man’s mouth.

“Save her!”  Gendry grunted at Brienne as he took a fist to his stomach.

“No,” Arya panted as she pushed her bent legs against the ground, “save Gendry!  Save Gendry!”  Biter pressed down against Arya’s hips, pushing them into the earth as he aimed his mouth over her face.  She saw Biter’s teeth just inches from her cheek and felt failure churning through her belly.  She felt their names slipping free from her mind.

“Lady!”  Gendry screamed.  “Save her!  **SAVE HER**!”

The pointed teeth drew closer to her face.  Arya pushed harder against his body, rolling her hips from side to side, trying to knock him loose.  Hot tears slid from under her eyelids.  “Not today,” she bit out.  “Not today!”  He gripped both her small wrists in one hand, pressing them into the ground until she feared the bones might break.  His right hand slipped to her throat and squeezed.  The world turned black, her lungs screaming for air.  Her rolling grew weaker. 

“Now!  Do it now!” she heard a voice scream.  She felt Biter’s hot breath stinging across her cheek as his mouth unhinged, like a snake’s, above her face.  A smell like a charnel house filled her nose as her eyes slipped closed.

With a groan, Biter’s hand went slack against her neck and he fell forward onto Arya.  Her hands flew free from his hold and she pushed against his shoulders.  Behind him, Brienne stood, leaning all her weight on the hilt of a magnificent sword.  Blood dripped onto Arya’s chest.  It ran down the sword in tiny crimson rivers, swirling with the red and black ripples forged on the blade.  Then Brienne pulled her weapon from Biter’s back and Arya heaved him off her hips with a panting shove.   Gendry’s mouth was a bloody mess as he rushed past Brienne, Pod limping to the Maid of Tarth’s side.  Brienne wrapped her arm around the boy’s waist and held him on his feet.  She stood gaping at Gendry as he knelt beside Arya, his hands cupping her face.  A rough thumb slid along her cheekbone.

“Arya, m’lady, thank gods, I thought he was going to…was going to-,”

She pushed his hands from her face and sat up.

“Not today,” was all she said.

Brienne’s mouth opened and closed as she eyed Gendry closely.  “How do you know the Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell, blacksmith?” she asked.  Gendry looked at Arya.

Arya turned over on her knees and struggled to get up.  Gendry’s hands went to lift her from the ground but she knocked them away.

“I’m fine,” she said between her teeth.  “We traveled together, Lady Brienne,” she answered between gulps of breath.  “After my father was killed.  The Black Brothers were taking us to the Wall.”  She pushed his reaching hands away once more.

He scowled and held out Needle.  “And It’s good to see you, too, m’lady.”  She snatched her sword from his hands.

Brienne could not take her eyes from Gendry Waters.  “You look so much like…like…him.  I almost thought you had returned from the dead.”

The young man narrowed his blue eyes.  “Like who, m’lady?”

Brienne closed her mouth, cheeks flaming.  “It matters not.  Not anymore.  All that matters is you helped save our lives.”  She glanced at Pod then back to Gendry.  “Thank you.”

Brienne looked at Arya and dropped to one knee.  She was so tall, she still kept an arm around Podrick, supporting him as he slumped in pain.  “Lady Arya,” she said.   “this is my squire Podrick Payne and I am Brienne of Tarth, sworn to your-,”

“I know,” Arya said, raising a hand.  “My mother.  You beat the Hound.  I remember.”

Lady Brienne nodded, once.  She stood and brought Pod closer to her side.  “I once swore my sword to your mother, yes, but I have found your sister, Lady Sansa Stark, and my sword now belongs to her.”

Arya ignored her throbbing neck and stepped closer to the woman.  “You found my sister?  Where? How?”

“My lady, it is a long tale and we must bind up our wounds first.  My squire is grievous hurt and-,”

“You will tell me  _now_.”

Lady Brienne narrowed her eyes at the command.

Gendry was at Arya’s side in a blink, gliding to her elbow as if on wheels.  “M’lady, please.  The Tarth woman is right.  We should leave this place and make camp soon.”

Arya would not be moved.  “Where is my sister?  Is it true she took back Winterfell with my brother Jon Snow?”

Brienne nodded as her fingers caressed the pommel of her sword.  “Truly.  That is why I came south.  To seek aid from your uncle Brynden Tully. I came seeking men to aid the Starks in their attempt to reclaim Winterfell.  But the Blackfish could not be convinced of my… _honor_.”  Her eyes were hard, blue stones.

“My uncle is dead.  The Freys took Riverrun.”   Arya’s eyes flicked to the lion underneath Brienne’s broad hand. “With help from the Lannisters.”  Her eyes slid to Pod.  Her voice was soft, edged in ice when she spoke.  “Payne, did you say, Lady Brienne?  A Payne took my father’s head.  Ser Ilayne Payne.  Any relation, Pod?”  Pod nodded, his chin stuck to this chest.  A silence deeper, colder than the slanting shadows around them crept between the two women as they stared across the yard.

It was Gendry who spoke first.  He looked at Arya, his hand on her arm, but she would not take her eyes from Brienne.  “She is a friend, Arya.  She is your sister’s sworn sword.  By the Seven, she saved you, m’lady.”

Her eyes slid to Gendry and he saw no warmth in their grey depths.  He shrunk from what he saw in her gaze though his hand still rested on her arm.

Pod groaned and hunched over to his knees.  Arya moved from beneath Gendry’s fingers, her eyes once again on Brienne.  But before she could speak, people came running from the inn.  They fell on Arya and the others, thanking them for saving their lives.

“Who were these men?” Arya asked one.

“The Brave Companions,” he answered, in hushed tones.  “But there is nothing brave about terrorizing small folk, if you ask me.  Seven blessings to you for saving us.”

“Are there any more of these Companions?” she asked.

“There numbers grow smaller, so we hear.  But there may be more.”

“Do you have a horse?”

The man nodded.

“Tell the folk in the inn to set a watch.  Arm yourselves.  And we’ll be taking the horse.”

The man blanched.  “But what if more cutthroats come?  We are in no shape to fight them, as you did.” 

“Then you had better start praying to your Seven,” Arya sneered.  Gendry watched her, a strange look on his face but he went with the man to saddle the horse.  Brienne held onto Pod as a woman bound his wrist to his chest.  Arya limped off to the trees, seeing clearly in the gathering darkness her dropped bags.  She turned, her eyes fixing on Gendry.  He rejoiced to see her, as she did to see him, her heart leaping at the sight of him in the yard.  He was healthy and hale after all this time.  He was even more muscled than she remembered, his hair dark and longer, making his eyes shine like the blue stars above them.  His fingers were warm and strong against her cheek as he stroked the soft skin after Brienne killed Biter.   _Those fingers_ , she thought,  _those fingers, his fingers…_  Arya felt heat burst over her cheeks.  It had been so long since someone touched her with such tenderness.   She scowled at the memory of his touch, the look in his eyes.  She hitched the bag over her shoulder and stomped back into the yard.  Gendry rushed to help her and she fought the urge to slap him across his swelling jaw or wrap her arms around his slim waist, covering his neck with her warm tears.  She felt him hovering near her even as she pushed him away with a snapping tone in her words. He went off to help Brienne heave Pod over the horse’s back.   He ran inside a shed near the inn and came back with a small bundle in his hands, a bedroll, some blankets on his back.  He grinned at all three of them.

“I’m coming, too.”  He flashed Arya his bull helm before folding it inside his bag.  Arya looked at his grin, his blue eyes and did not trust herself to speak.  Brienne gave him a curt dip of her head.

They walked, leaving the inn behind and she heard Pod groan or grunt with every other step as Brienne led the horse.

“Do you think he’ll be alright?” Gendry whispered to Arya.

“He’ll live.”

“How do you know?”

She shrugged.  “He’s not bleeding from his mouth.  If something was crushed or broken inside him, there would be blood in his mouth.  A fat man fell on him, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” Gendry said, brows beetling.  “That man must’ve weighed over 20 stones!”

“He’ll live,” she snapped, “as I said.  What are you doing here, Gendry?”

“I’ve only been here a few weeks, maybe.  I was working at the Twins but a lord didn’t like how the Frey daughters were always coming round, winking their eyes at me.  He threatened to send me to the Wall.  I thought it best if I leave.”  Arya said nothing, tried not to look at him, wondering about the daughters looks.   Gendry continued through her silence.  “I found the inn, asked if they needed any work done.  Places like that always need a blacksmith.”  She heard the smile in his voice.  “Gods, it’s good to see you.”  His face was fully turned to see her.  She said nothing and when she glanced at him, his face had fallen, the smile gone.  “Right,” he said, his voice flat.  “Well, now that the Starks have Winterfell again, do you think I could find work there?”

She stared at him, then.  “You want to go north?  To Winterfell?”

He narrowed his eyes.  “Yes.  Of course I do.  Isn’t that where _you’re_ going?”

“We had better stop here,” Brienne’s voice rang out.  Arya moved past Gendry and set to make camp.  

Later, though she would not admit it, it felt good to be with experienced campers.  Her eyes moved to Gendry strong back as he lifted a log.  Arya sighed as she knelt over a clump of twigs and branches, her flint stones sparking in the dark before flames kindled to life.  She willed her eyes to stay on the fire as it bloomed.  Her neck hurt but she saw Brienne grimace as she knelt next to Pod.  His back was slumped against a broad tree.

“Here, let me.”  Arya knelt on Pod’s other side as Lady Brienne peered at her through a scowl.  As she tended to Pod’s broken wrist, Lady Brienne’s many wounds, she tried not to notice Gendry moving about in the darkness, tending to the horse.  His muscles rippled down his arms as he fed the beast, rubbed it down.  She pulled her eyes back to Brienne’s narrowed gaze and knew she should have followed her path.  A deep breath filled Arya’s chest once more.  She should have listened to the last names chanting in her mind and ignored the cries, the singing steel, from the side of a road.

 

 

************************************************************

Arya tended to Gendry, Pod snoring softly across the circle of the campfire.  Arya gave the squire a mug of willow bark tea for his broken wrist and he slept after their meager meal of black bread and dried venison.  Arya looked at the deep cut on Gendry’s chin and knew she would need to close it, and soon. She remembered how quickly Lommy died from his wounded leg.  While she prepared boiled wine and blackened needle and thread, Brienne told her of finding Sansa Stark.  Of seeing the Stark girl in an inn.  Of telling her of the vow to Lady Catelyn.  Lady Brienne offered to take Sansa to her brother at the Wall.  Sansa was torn but in the end, she went with Brienne and her squire.  Petyr Baelish let them leave, untouched.  They traveled without incident to the safety of the Wall and the Lord Commander, Jon Snow.

Arya did not have much contact with the man when she lived in King’s Landing but this did not sound like what she remembered of Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin.

“The Lord of the Vale just let you leave with my sister?  The last known Stark of Winterfell?  The killer of Joffrey Baratheon?”

Brienne stared into the fire.  “We all thought it queer he would give her up.  He even made her die her hair black and name herself Alayne Stone, his natural daughter.”

Arya stifled a giggle.  Besides her name, her hair was Sansa’s most prized possession.  How their lady mother loved to brush it until it shown like the setting sun.  Arya could scarce picture her sister without a coppery braid thrown over one shoulder.  But her giggle died with wondering.  “Baelish came to their aid, yes?”

“Aye.  It was how they won Winterfell.”

The wine and tools were ready.  Arya pursed her lips but said no more about the riddle, reaching for Gendry’s jaw with her slim fingers.  For now, it was enough that Jon and Sansa were safe in Winterfell.  The sooner she returned home, the sooner she would learn the answer.  She tried not to stare back into his eyes as his eyes roved her face.  She could smell him, all leather and sweat and…Gendry.  She could feel the heat from his body as she leaned close.  Arya threaded the needle through his skin and he tried not to gasp.  At first he was stoic, his face a blank mask, his eyes fixed on her.  But after time, he began to wince and fidget with every dip and pull of her needle.

“Don’t move.”

“It hurts-,”

“Of course it hurts, fool,” she snapped.  “He almost broke your jaw.”  She pulled the thread tighter.  “I’m almost through, you big babe.”

Gendry looked at her.  “Is that all you mean to say to me?  Call me names?  Snap at me?  What happened to you?  I thought you were d-,”

“Arr!”  Arya yelped.  “I can’t stitch you if you keep talking, Gendry!”

His large hand clamped over her fingers.  “So answer my question, Arya.  Look at me!”  His eyes were blue ice, his words pushed through clenched teeth.  “Where the fuck have you been?”

Arya thought of something vicious to say, to throw his anger back in his face but she stopped.  “Braavos.”

“Braavos,” he repeated.  “Why?  With who?”

She thought she would only tell her family.  But once upon a time, he was her family.  Her only family.  He was her Gendry.  “The Faceless Men.”

His eyes widened. “The assassins?  Why, m’lady?”

“Why do you think?” she scoffed.  “To learn from them, fool.”

“Learn what, exactly?”  The confusion on his face almost broke her heart, almost made her laugh.  She still remembered it so well.  But she held her voice steady as she stared into his eyes.

“I needed to learn how to kill people, Gendry.  So I could return to Westeros and kill everyone who ever hurt my family.”  The ice slipped back into her voice.  “And now, there are only two names left on my list.”

Gendry stared at her, his swollen mouth trembling with questions.  But it was Brienne who spoke instead.

“Who are they, Lady Arya?  Who are the last on your list?”

She broke from Gendry’s stare to look at Brienne of Tarth.  “Cersei Lannister and Gregor Clegane.”

Brienne worried her bottom lip with her large teeth.  “You go to King’s Landing?”

“Aye.  I was on my way from Riverrun when I heard you fighting.”

“Riverrun?” Gendry asked.  “You were in Riverrun?”

She turned to him.  “Yes.  There was a name on my list.”

“Who?”  Brienne asked, her voice shaky.  “Who did you kill?”

“Walder Frey.  But not before I fed him his own sons in a pie.”  She smiled.  Gendry shot to his feet, thread and needle hanging from his chin.  “Where are you going?  I’m not-,”

“I need air,” he said, walking away from her, into the woods.

“But we’re already outside, you lackwit!” she called after him.

He did not answer and Arya heard the swish of bushes as he disappeared into the trees. 

Brienne still stared at her across the flames.  Her mouth trembled and she bit the bottom lip, holding it steady for a moment between her teeth.  “In a pie?  You fed him his own sons in…a pie?”

Arya shrugged, folded the wineskin back inside her satchel.

“Riverrun,” Brienne said softly.  “You were at Riverrun?  Did you see…did you…see Ser Jaime Lannister?”

“Aye.  I saw the Kingslayer.”

“And he was…well?”

“He was, the last I saw him.  And just as beautiful as ever.”

Arya could not be certain, but a smile seemed to tug at the woman’s mouth.  Arya glanced at Oathkeeper on the ground, Brienne’s cleaning tools beside it.  “Was it him that gave you the sword?”

“Yes.”

“Why?  Why would he give you a Valyrian steel sword?”

“We swore a vow to your mother.  To find you.  To find your sister and bring you both home.”  Her jaw clenched, the muscles bulging.  “And it is only fitting I protect the Stark daughters with their father’s sword.”

Arya gasped.  “Your sword is made from… _Ice_?”

Brienne nodded, slowly.  “Yes.  As is Widow’s Wail, Queen Cersei’s sword.  Tywin Lannister had two swords made from Ice.” She glanced at the sword, touched the roaring lion on the hilt with one broad finger.  “And Ser Jaime Lannister gave me his own, to keep his vow.”

The way she spoke of him, caressed his sword churned acid in the middle of Arya’s chest.  “Should I be impressed, Lady Brienne?  That the Kingslayer did at least one fucking honorable thing in his miserable life?”

Brienne’s eyes flew to Arya.  “Not only one.  When your mother set him free, he saved me on our way to King’s Landing.  Not once but twice.”

Arya threw back her head, her scoffing laughter tinkling up to the stars.  “If only you were shorter, Moon Boy should fear for his job.  The Kingslayer cares for naught but himself and his… _lover_.”  Arya saw Brienne’s cheeks mottle and redden.  “So it is true, Lady Brienne.  Cersei is his lover.  Joffrey and Myrcella and Tommen are his bastards.”

Brienne looked at the ground, worked her lip with her teeth and nodded.  “I heard him confess to your mother.  But he saved me, I swear.”

Arya laughed again.  “Forgive me if I do not believe you, Lady Brienne.  The Kingslayer fucked his own sister.  He fathered three bastards with her, pretending they were King Robert’s heirs.  Why would he save you?  _How_ did he save you?”  
Brienne’s jaw set in a hard line as she looked at Arya Stark.  “They were going to rape me.  Some of these men were there, these men we killed.  He stopped them.  And while Roose Bolton freed Ser Jaime to return to King’s Landing, he kept me prisoner at Harrenhal while he traveled to the Twins.”  She swallowed.  “For the Red Wedding.”

The smile slid from Arya’s face.

“They threw me into a bear pit.  Gave me only a wooden tourney sword to defend myself.  But Jaime Lannister returned for me.  And he jumped into that pit, with one hand, to save me from the bear.”

It was too much, this ridiculous tale.  Heat rose in Arya’s voice.  “ _Why_?  Why would the Kingslayer return to Harrenhal and jump into a bear pit to save _you_?”

Brienne’s eyes slipped to something behind Arya’s head, her eyes soft with remembering.  “To this day, I don’t know.  All he would say is that he dreamed of me.”  She turned her eyes to Arya.  “And so he came back.”

Gendry returned from the woods but he would not meet Arya’s eyes as she looked up at him.

“I’m going to sleep until my watch,” he muttered, handing the needle and thread to her.  He threw his bedroll next to a snoring Pod.

“Gendry-,” Arya said.

“’Night,” is all he answered before wrapping himself inside his thick blankets.

Arya watched for a long moment as Gendry turned his back to the fire.  But Brienne’s eyes never left Arya’s face.  She stared at the girl across the flames.

“What of Ser Jaime Lannister?  Will you kill him, too?”

Arya swiveled her eyes to meet Lady Brienne’s gaze.  “I will spare no one if this means avenging and saving what is left of my family.”

“Your family needs you, Lady Arya.  They miss you.  They will want to see you.  The Boltons are defeated.  With Tywin dead and Walder Frey dead and now Roose Bolton, the Red Wedding has been avenged.  Come back with me to Winterfell.”

“There is nothing I want more, Lady Brienne.  But I can’t.  I must go to King’s Landing.”

“Why?  If Cersei Lannister captures you, she will kill you.”

Arya laughed, a bark into the night.  “She cannot capture me, Lady Brienne.  And she cannot kill what she will not see.”

Brienne narrowed her eyes.  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I mean, I saved a man once.  And Biter and Rorge.”  Brienne gasped, her eyes wide.  Arya laughed at the sight.  “If your story is true, so is mine.  I saved them all from a fire.  A man said I stole three lives from the god of death.  A man said three lives were needed to take their place.  Three names.  All I need do was give a man three names and they would die.”  Arya felt them then, brimming under her eyes.  But she would not let them fall.  “I was so stupid.  So petty.  I could have ended the war a long time ago if only I said the right name.  But I didn’t and every one I loved died.”  She looked at Lady Brienne, willing the tears not to fall.  She heard the names circling through her mind and the tears dried hot in her eyes.  “But I will not make the same mistake again, my lady.”  She never blinked as she cycled the names.  Her voice was just above hearing.  “No, I know well their names and I will not make the same mistake again.” 

 

************************************************************************

 Brienne took first watch, Arya second, Gendry last.

When she woke Gendry for his watch, he would not look at her.

“Gendry, please-,”

“No,” he said, his voice soft in the shadows.  “In the morning.”

Arya slipped into her bedroll, thinking of what she would say to him in the morning.  Would she make him understand how it felt to see them all die, to see them stolen from her at the hands of monsters?  Would she make him understand the power her god gave to her, his Handmaiden, to avenge them?  Anger flared hot in her chest.  She did not need his understanding.  She was chosen to be their avenger.  And Gendry, only someone she once knew.

Arya lay on her back, closed her eyes, almost asleep at once.  She slept and saw Bran falling from the tower.  She saw a face, golden and handsome peering down from the window, a blink of sad, green eyes before he turned away.  Then she saw Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth fighting in swirling snow.  Their blades shone in the darkness, silvery-blue as they cut through moving shadows.  Arya watched them, tried to move, to join the fight, to beat back the shadows.  The Kingslayer’s sword began to flicker and fade, the light growing dim.  Brienne fought on but the shadows pressed against them.  Arya tried to move. 

She tried to cry out but the voice was not her own.  “ _Bring him home, Shadow Wolf_ ,” the voice said, feathering across her mind.  “ _You must protect him and bring him home to the wolves_.”  Arya tried to speak, to answer but a hand gripped her shoulder, roughly rolling her from side to side.

“Arya!  M’lady!  Wake up!”

Her eyes flew open.  She saw nothing.  She heard a gasp.  She blinked and trees came into focus, the sky a pale red.  She sat up and Gendry skittered back from her bedroll.

“Your eyes-,” he panted.

“My eyes?..”

“Were gone,” he answered.  “Whited out.”  She stared at him.  “Blank.”  He swallowed.  Arya stared across the dying fire, at Lady Brienne.  Pod blinked at her, too. 

Brienne’s scowl deepened.  Arya stood up.

“I’m alright, she told them.

“You said my name,” Brienne told her.  “And Ser Jaime Lannister’s.”

She stared at the woman.  “It was your story of Harrenhal,” she lied.  “The story you told me.  It must have found its way into my dream.”

Brienne would only look at her, saying nothing.

But Arya knew it was not a dream she had of them, fighting the shadows with flaming swords. 

It was vision.

They broke camp then, another small meal before setting off.  Three went north, one south.  Arya gave Lady Brienne more packets of willow bark tea for their injuries, telling the woman to assure her family she would see them soon.  Brienne looked at her.

“I know something of quests, my lady.  I would not stop you, only-,”

“You could not stop me if you tried.”  Arya tightened her pack and scowled.  She lost much time yesterday and planned to run, if necessary, all the way to King’s Landing to beat the Dragon.  She remembered the dream and her scowled deepened.  Dreams were naught but lies.  Visions, a shadow trick on the wall.  And she would not bring an enemy to the gates of her home.

“Lady Brienne?” she snapped.  The woman turned from helping Podrick onto the horse and stood across from Arya.  Gendry fed the horse a handful of hay and would not meet her eyes.

“Yes, my lady?”

“I know you know the answer so tell it true.  Did he do it?  Did the Kingslayer push my brother from that tower?”

Brienne drew herself up, squared her broad shoulders.  “Yes.  He confessed to your lady mother.”  He voice was soft.  “But he is a different man now.”

“Yet he is still the same man who pushed my brother to his death.”

“Lady Arya, I cannot defend his actions-,”

“And yet you try.  Do you love him?  Is that why you champion the Kingslayer?”

Brienne gaped at her, her mouth opening and closing like a flounder caught in the Narrow Seas.  “Lady Arya, I…I…”

“Love him,” Arya ground between her teeth.  “A sister fucking, child pushing worthless piece of Aurouch’s shit that gave you that gods-damned sword and happens to be the most beautiful beast in the realm.   _How_?  How can you love him, Lady Brienne?”

“I do not,” she stammered, “I do not…I… _respect_ him.  He saved me.  And he vowed to save you and your sister.”  Her eyes grew wide, heavy with the longing of her quest.  “Come _home_ , my lady,” Brienne said.  “ _Please_.”

Arya’s voice was edged steel.  “No.  And fuck the Kingslayer and his empty vows.  They are only words and words only wind.  I saved myself.”

“No,” Brienne said, her voice soft.  “ _I_ saved you.  Yesterday, _I_ saved you, Lady Arya.”

Arya narrowed her eyes.  “I owe you _nothing,_ Brienne of Tarth.  I saved, you saved, we all saved lives yesterday.”

“Truly,” Lady Brienne answered with a sigh.  “Only… please, my lady…if you can find it in your heart-,”

“I can’t.  They are my sworn enemies.  But you have saved my sister, tried to save me.”  She thought of the strange vision and pursed her lips.  “Your honor is good and true, no doubt.  And although a riddle to me, you love one so unworthy.”  The tall woman’s face reddened as she dropped her clear blue eyes.  “So I will honor _you_ with only this promise.  I promise to wait and watch before I decide what to do with his life.  But whatever I decide, Lady Brienne, it _will_ be done.” 

Brienne only gave a stiff nod as her answer.  Arya turned to leave, her eyes fixed on the black haired young man.

“Gendry-,”

 “M’lady.  Let me go with you.”

“No.  This is something I must do alone.”

He peered at her through narrowed eyes.  “You really mean to do it, don’t you?  You really mean to kill them, to kill the Queen?”

“I do.”  Her eyes burned into his.  “I will.”

“Arya, m’lady, this is madness.  Come with us, let us take you back home-,”

“Gendry, no.  There will be no home, no safety for me and mine until she is dead.  And I must do it.  I alone must kill her.”

“ _Why_?”  Gendry’s mouth hung open in desperation and she tried not to linger on their full shape.  “Why must you be the one to kill them?  They say the dragons are coming, m’lady.  Let them deal with Queen Cersei.”

“No.  It must be me.”

“ _Why_?

“Those names are mine, Gendry.  They belong to me.”

“Belong to  _you_?  Listen to yourself, Arya.  How can  _their_  names belong to  _you_?”

“All the names of those who hurt my family, who helped murder them are mine.  And I will collect what is owed me.  Here,” she said, thrusting Needle’s hilt at him.  “Take this home, to Winterfell.  Show it to my brother, Jon.  He will know then what you tell them of me is true.”

They stared at each other, gray eyes fixed on blue.  Arya knew it only but a few steps, a few seconds to wrap her arms around his neck, plant a kiss on the corner of his lips but those seconds felt to her heart like centuries.  Gendry gave a scoffing laugh, holding up her sword before letting his hand drop once more to his side. 

“So this is it, then, m’lady?  This is all I will have of you?  I’m to lose you again?”

“I’ll come home, Gendry.”  She swallowed past the lump in her throat.  “I promise.”

His jaw clenched as he ground his teeth.  “Fine.  Until I see you, then.”  He closed the distance, reaching for her, at last.  But Arya pulled back and turned to walk. 

“Good bye, Gendry,” was all she said before turning south.

She lingered but a moment on what she saw in his eyes and did not dare herself to say more.

 

************************************************************************

Jaime Lannister waited to leave through the Dragon Gate, dressed in a poor man’s clothes.  Arya barked a laugh at what she saw floating above the Red Keep.  Addam Marbrand, a man she once hated, once hoped would die, became the only man she trusted to send and help the Kingslayer in his task.  She knew the black smoke rising in the distance was Marbrand’s work as much as it was Ser Jaime’s.  Arya scowled at the shift in his name, how subtlely it changed these days.  Then before she could wonder, Arya saw him almost stab a wretch before giving the begging urchin his apple.  She had seen him do the same before, give extra food and firewood to servants at the Red Keep, seen him trying for ways to save the city and the people in it.  She could scarce believe this was the Kingslayer, the man without honor.  

The man who feed wretches and kitchen boys.

The same man who flung her brother Bran from an open window.

With a curse, she grasped a fistful of her skirts and followed him.  No, he was still the Kingslayer.  And all she showed him now was a brown haired woman, long sallow face, dull blue eyes.  His eyes slid over her as they pushed with the masses through the Red Gate and onto the King’s Road, traveling north.

Arya saw him on the road.  She almost laughed at his feeble Ashemark accent, his flimsy tale of Marqus the Woodcutter while trying to hide the few gleaming rubies in the pommel of his sword.  She observed how carefully he asked others if they were No One at each camp.  She lied every time he asked her and knew from the fear deep in his eyes that he would never accept Arya Stark as they both journeyed to Winterfell.  

Arya once tested his claim that he loved Brienne, flashing her cunt in an invitation.

He declined and fled the camp.

She tested his heart, his envy of his brother’s rise with the Dragon when she told him of Tarth’s fall.  She saw his blank stare, watched his tears fall.

And then she saw him come undone. 

She heard him cry out, whimpering in his sleep.  She tried not to soften, to melt when she heard him whisper her mother’s name in a dream, begging her forgiveness.  She saw him begin to mumble to the shadows on the road.  She decided to leave the Kingslayer as he seemed to sink deeper into himself, talking to shades as he stumbled through the Riverlands.  She dreamed then, another vision.  It was the same as before.  The Kingslayer and Lady Brienne, fighting the shadows with kindled swords.  Once more, the voice called her Shadow Wolf, bid her protect him, bring him home. 

She decided to heed the voice and follow him.  But she saw him slipping deeper into his misery, into madness.  When he chased the crows through the dead field, she decided to leave him to his agony.  She dreamt again, as before.  Their blades danced with silver fire.  The booming voice she heard was different, though.  “ _You cannot turn away from us, Shadow Wolf_.”  The voice broke through the swirling snow.  The voice sounded deep, yet high, singing yet speaking, as if many voices were bound up in one.  “ _We are in your blood.  We are in your name.  You have turned yet you stand in a circle.  We are everywhere you look.  You cannot turn from us, Shadow Wolf.  For a shadow needs light to live.  And you must guide the Kingslayer home_.”  

Arya awoke, trembling as the voice rumbled through her mind.  She knew these were not the warm gods of the south, the Seven who her mother so loved.  No, these were the gods of her father, gods of the north, stern and cold and unflinching as they looked on the world.  

The Shadow Wolf, they called her.

But she was not a wolf.  She left her wolf to die.  And she was reborn, in Braavos, in the halls of the Faceless Men.

Still, Arya did not yet leave the Kingslayer.  But when she saw the foolish man eat an old jar of preserves, when she saw him almost retch himself to death in the abandoned keep, she knew he would never survive the trip north. 

And staying with him would only get them both killed.

Arya refused to die, shackled to her enemy and his madness and his grief.  She would leave him the next day and strike hard and fast for Winterfell. 

Who were these cold northern gods to her, she scoffed, kindling her fire for her camp.  She watched as they did nothing to save her father, her brother, even her lady mother who still bore the name Stark.  No, she belonged to the One now, Arya thought as she closed her eyes to sleep for a few hours after a long watch.  She worshipped the One with so many faces, he had none.  These old gods of the Starks could not touch her.  She smiled as she snuggled deeper into her bedroll.  Too bad these northern gods had no faces.  She would have liked to kill them, as tribute to her god.   Arya  thought of the offerings she gave the One, smiling as she drifted into sleep.  She loved killing her enemies, truly.  She loved to see their blood run down her blade, loved to hear them cry and beg for mercy as she gave them none, remembering how they gave none to her family.  She loved the power their fear gave to her.  That night, at her watch, she replayed their bloody deaths over and over as she recited their names.  It gave her more pleasure than a man like Gendry Waters ever could.  She pushed his judging eyes from her mind with a scowl.  Who was he to her?  She learned well her lessons with the Faceless Men, lived to serve the god of death and knew no living man could defeat her. 

A sigh filling her chest, she slept and dreamt she was a child again.  She saw the faces of Ned and Catelyn Stark over her, so close she reached up to touch their chins.  She saw their smiling faces as they bathed her, held her, her mother putting her against her warm breast.  Arya tasted the sweet milk bursting in her mouth as her mother feathered her fingers along her scalp, hummed a gentle song.  She bounced on her father’s hip, her small hand grasped in her mother’s before they put her down in a yard.  Ned and Catelyn slipped their arms around each other’s waists, turned to leave Arya where she stood and did not look back as she cried.  Shadows moved.  Arya saw cold, blue eyes wrapped inside the darkness.  She felt afraid and reached out for her parents, lifting little, weak arms to their turned backs.  But they were gone, swallowed in the darkness behind the shadows.  Arya looked for two flaming swords.  There were none for Jaime Lannister and Brienne were not there, beating back the darkness with silver light.  She was alone, the shadows creeping closer.  She was helpless against them, at their mercy and she knew these shadows had none for the living.  Arya’s heart skipped beats against her chest as she tried to move, to wake up.  She could not move, she could not open her eyes against the darkness slithering closer.  Then the voice whispered somewhere above her head.

“ _You will always belong to us, Arya Stark.  Our blood you bleed.  With our eyes, you see.  And you will return when the white wolf runs across the sky, when the Kingslayer holds you safe in his arms_.” 

The shadows faded to mist. 

Arya blinked.  White fog threaded through the trees.    She lay curled on her side, a mound of furs over her body.  She seemed lost beneath the weight and length of her blankets, something she had never noticed before. Her head hurt, her body ached as she rolled from her side to her back.  Rarely did she sleep curled on her side and wondered why she slept in this strange position last night.  A small, woolen cloak covered the clothes and boots underneath it.  She stood and the world wobbled, slanted and slid upside down as she fell on top of the furs.  The trees seemed even taller.  Cold air sliced across her bare skin.  She looked down.  Gone were her clothes, her boots and with them, her hidden weapons.  Instead, she saw short, chubby legs, dimpled knees, squat, square toes.   She looked between her legs and saw she was bald of any dark hair.  Her breasts were gone, her chest flat as a boy’s, heaving with quick, shallow breaths. Arya looked at her hands, at her stubby fingers.  Her short arms were deflated of any hard, lean muscle earned through training, just soft rolls of plump flesh.  Arya tried to speak, to call out, to beg for forgiveness, for mercy.  All she heard was useless babble.  She tried turning into herself over and over again.  She could not.  She stayed as she was, wailing on the fur blankets, tiny hands tearing at the curls on her head.

Gone were her blades striking true, her skill of shifting into many faces, her talent for killing.

Gone, the one her enemies never saw coming as she sent them with a smile to the waiting hells below.

Gone was the Handmaiden of Braavos. 

In her place sat a crying babe, alone in a wilderness of mourning.

Arya opened her mouth and could not stop screaming.

 


	8. The Champion of Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Jaime faces the Starks....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Forgive me for missing last Friday's deadline: with working full time, my husband being out of town and parental duties down to only me, Jewels, shit got real!  
> *And finally, FINALLY, we are almost there: Brienne will appear in the next chapter!  
> *Thanks for hanging in there with me, folks!

The wench did not come the next day. 

But others came to visit Jaime Lannister in his cell beneath the gray stone battlements of Winterfell.

Lady Sansa glared at him through the narrow opening of the bars, tall and proud, her thick hair a flame of copper.   A single braid draped heavily over one shoulder.  She stared at him with blue Tully eyes, eyes colder than slow-moving ice floes, her gaze shaper than Valyrian blades through Jaime’s skin.

She could not have looked more like Catelyn Stark in this moment, long ago it seemed, in the dark bowels of Riverrun. He remembered Catelyn plied him with sour wine, thinking drink would loosen his tongue as she sought answers. He smiled at the memory. No, he was ready to die then as now and with nothing left to lose he welcomed both the wine and needling Ned’s woman with the vicious sting of his truth. He glanced at Sansa, at her hate. Here stood the beautiful young woman who now claimed Brienne’s unwavering loyalty. Jaime felt his gut churn, hot acid beneath his ribs. He deepened his smile with a curl of his lips.

Sansa gasped and her full mouth thinned in disgust reminded him even more keenly of her dead mother.  For a long time she said naught to him though her eyes said it all. Jaime listened to those eyes. He held their hate, blinking slowly. He heard their tale of loss, saw in their icy-blue light the strangled dreams of grace and innocence and love and he returned her gaze, narrowing his eyes in defiance.  

Finally, she did speak.  

Gone was the high voice of a girl, shrill and soft and silly, whispering of gallant knights and wreathes of roses won.  When she spoke now, it was with the deep, full voice of a woman who watched her father’s head and honor bounce down the broad steps of a sept.

“Did you know, Kingslayer?” Her voice was soft but strong, clear as it carried to Jaime.

“I know a great many things, Lady Sansa,” he drawled, “so I’m afraid you will have to be more specific.”  Jaime lounged on the floor, his long legs stretched out before him as he leaned his back against the firmness of his head roll.  He was bored and wounded that he stared into the burning cold of Sansa’s eyes instead of eyes like sun-warmed sapphires. If the girl wanted to spar, let her spar. He was a Lion, the trueborn son of Tywin Lannister. He learned well the blood sport of scalding words and barbed retorts and very rarely did they miss their mark.

“Did you know,” she said slowly, walking closer to the bars, “that he _beat_ me?  Your  _son_.  Your  _bastard_.  He beat me, his  _betrothed_.  He  _beat_  me for Robb’s victories, he  _beat_  me when angry with the Imp, he  _beat_ me when bored, looking so much like you, now.  He stripped me  _naked_ to my waist, in front of the  _court_.  He ordered my legs beaten with the flat of a  _sword_ because he didn’t want Meryn Trant to hit my face.  He said he liked me  _pretty_. Bruised and unable to walk, to sit even a _privy_ but still, he wanted me  _pretty_.  He beat me and  _nobody_  stopped him.  The whole castle knew, even the queen.  Did you know, Kingslayer?”

A sigh filled his chest and Jaime turned his head from her deep voiced anger. _Oh, Cersei, you vicious, stupid creature. Joff was no more fit to be a King than Moonboy._ “No, I did not know, Lady Sansa.  I was filthy and chained in a dark cell in Riverrun. I was held by your lady mother, the ever _gracious_ Catelyn Stark while your _dear_ brother Robb-,”

“ **DO NOT DARE SPEAK THEIR NAMES**!”   He whipped his head to look at her and sat up straight. Her voice shocked through him as it rolled off the old stones of the cell.   Sansa stood, her eyes wide, her body shaking.  Her hands gripped the cold iron bars. The small knuckles were white and her hands trembled. 

With that voice, that _fury_ , she could command a battlefield.  

They stared at each other through the bars.   The sound faded to silence.  When she spoke again, her voice was soft, her body still once more.  “Not to me, Kingslayer. Not _ever_.”

Jaime took three full breaths, his eyes fixed on the mask of Sansa’s face. “No,” he began again with ringing ears, “I did not know...I did not know Joffrey beat you, Lady Sansa.”  Gone was Jaime’s mocking, japing drawl. Instead, his voice carried strong, direct, the voice of an answering soldier.

“But if you were there, Kingslayer, if you saw your  _son_ , the _bastard_ you had with your own twin _sister_ , if you saw him order me beaten and beaten and  _beaten_ , after he took my father’s head, after swearing mercy for him, after _laughing_ in my face at word of my mother and brother’s  _butchering_ , would you have stopped him?  Would you have _tried_ to protect me?”

He looked away, remembered Aerys then, the sounds of things breaking, the pound of slippered feet running, hands slapping, punching, feet kicking, remembered the queen’s cries, shrieks, screams for mercy behind a wide carved door.  All he need do was reach for the brass handle, push it open, though heavy.  

He never did.  

“He was my king, Lady Sansa.”  Jaime’s voice faltered as he looked at the floor, the words soft, sad with memories.

“He was _nobody’s_ king, Kingslayer.  And your answer, even now, even _still_ , is ‘ _no_ ’”.  She turned to leave.

“Lady Sansa, _please_.  She is your sworn sword.  If I might only see Lady Brienne for but a-,”

She laughed, as sharp as dragonglass across his skin.  “How _pathetic_ you are. Lord Baelish warned me you were ever a fool. It seems he told me true.  You admit to flinging my little brother from a window, to his _death_. I tell you I was beaten and shamed by your  _son_ , had the lives of my loved ones, even my direwolf  _stolen_  from me by your family and you can only think of your _lie_.”

“Yes, I threw your brother from that tower window. And I admit, Joffrey was my son but he was raised by King Robert and Cersei. I was not allowed the chance to raise him-,”

“He was your  _son_ , Kingslayer.” She pushed her words through her straight, white teeth.  “A _son_ you had with your  _sister_.  You gave life to the _monster_ who took my lord father’s head for learning the truth of your dark secret.  I am glad they are all dead.  Joffrey.  Cersei.  Tommen. Myrcella.  Lord Tywin.  And you will soon join them, Kingslayer, in the seventh hell of your own  _filthy_ making.” She smiled then, a feral thing, longing for sight of his blood. Jaime saw the light from the torches glint off the points of her teeth. She resembled the wolf on her family’s sigil.

Jaime swallowed thickly. “Our deaths will not return your lord father or lady mother or brother either, Lady Sansa. My death will not return Brandon his legs or your wolf to your side.”

“No.” Her smile spread and deepened, filling her cheeks over their high bones.  “Of course it won’t. But I will take satisfaction knowing you have finally paid us what you owe.  As for Lady Brienne, I cannot believe your _outlandish_ tale of deep love, no matter what Arya claims.  If I still believed in songs, I would _swoon_ at the hearing of such a tale. A beautiful, golden knight who leaves behind a great queen, riches, to travel by foot through the perils of cold and hunger and _death_ to declare his love for a warrior maiden.  But I don’t believe in _lies_ anymore, Jaime Lannister.  For the golden knight in this tale is _you_ , the _Kingslayer_ , the man without honor, the man who lay with his own sister.  No, I do not believe your tale, no one with any gods given sense believes it.  Especially _her_.” 

With a swirl of her great, gray cloak, Sansa Stark left him in his cell, surrounded by her ghosts. Jaime sat slumped against the wall staring through time at the dead or broken Starks flickering through his mind. Then he saw it so clearly, it made him smile. Sansa needed, no, _craved_ loyalty. She needed to know some things in life were steady, would never break like vows or bodies or love. His smile softened and he closed his eyes, feeling the sting of tears gathering beneath his eyelids. _Like_ _Brienne of Tarth._ But his smile faded, his eyes narrowing as another face slithered into view.

_Petyr Baelish. What mummer’s farce are you staging, Littlefinger?_

And he wondered what lines the little serpent whispered to Sansa Stark…

Jaime rolled down to his pallet and napped curled on his side. In his scattered dreams, he saw the Starks as they were at Winterfell when he traveled north with his King and his lover.   He saw the Stark family shining with good health and strong pride and the fullness of love. All of them, alive. All of them, whole.  He awoke to the sound of his supper and Maester Tarly arriving, tears sliding over the bridge of his nose, into his head roll. He sat up and ground the ghosts from his eyes with the heel of his hand as the maester leaned down to check his temple.

But they did not fade.  

Samwell Tarly pretended not to notice Jaime’s reddened nose and bloodshot eyes as he assessed the progress of Jaime’s healing and ignored questions about the wench.   And they did not leave with Maester Tarly and the servants, did not leave when Jaime munched his hot, hearty meal of crisped capon and golden potatoes, though tasting of warm ashes. They did not leave as he tossed through his dreams nor disappeared when dawn slid long umber fingers through the high bars of his cell.   He saw them when wide awake, his back pressed into the cool stones, staring across time. And Sansa’s ghosts crowded his cell, standing shoulder to shoulder with his own.

 

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The next day, Rickon Stark came, all fury of hands and feet, reaching for him through the bars with bared teeth. Rickon Stark carried his mother’s russet coloring and deep blue eyes. But where his sister’s eyes shone with an icy blue glare, Rickon’s eyes brimmed hot with hate.   On either side of Snow and Stark crouched their direwolves. Quiet Ghost, his red eyes glowing like coals in the gloom, never leaving Jaime’s face. Rickon’s wolf, wild as the boy, snapped at Jaime through the bars. The great beast’s dark gray pelt hung shaggy and overlong, matted with thick tangles. Jaime saw his fur marked with brown brambles and thistles and green pine needles scattered along the beast’s sides and back.  Jon pulled the boy and the wolf away from the bars and held the boy in the warm safety of his sable cloak. His long dark hair flowed over his shoulders beneath his bronze crown. Jon patted his brother’s small chest as the red-faced little boy huffed and spit at Jaime.  

“I want him dead, Jon,” the boy shrieked, “dead, for what they did to Bran and Mother and Father and Robb!”  He choked then screamed again, “I want him dead!”  He launched himself at the bars before Jon pulled him away once more. Jon heaved Shaggydog from the bars as well but the wolf turned on him with a snarl, snapping at the King’s gloved hand. Ghost leapt in front of his master in a blink. The white wolf growled and grew larger, fur bristling up and away from his crouching body.   Ghost stared the other wolf down until Shaggydog sunk his belly to the stone floor and slid off to a dark corner in the hall. But he showed Jaime his amber eyes and his longing for his blood through the shadows. Ghost turned from his brother and joined Jon and Rickon at the bars. Jon’s gaze was as cold as Rickon’s was blazing.  “He will be dead soon, little brother.”  Jon Snow patted the boy as he cried.   The king’s gray eyes never left Jaime’s own.  “Soon. I promise you, Rickon. Soon.”  Rickon turned to the strong comfort of Jon’s arms, wailing and calling for his mother, who left to go south and never returned.  Hot tears pricked Jaime’s eyes. He remembered his own lady mother. He tried to recall the face of the luminous, golden Joanna. But all he remembered was she never returned to him after going to her child-bed, her tummy swollen with what would be Tyrion.   Jaime listened to the boy’s rasping sobs. He opened his mouth but closed it slowly. He swallowed the words to share with Rickon Stark, silenced his words to describe what it meant to walk this vicious world without a mother’s love, to wonder about your life, your choices, your regrets if only she yet lived.  But Jaime did not utter a sound. He knew his words, though true as the longing in Rickon’s tears, were nothing to this boy.  Instead, he watched Jon put his arm around Rickon’s shaking shoulders and led him away from the cell. The wolves followed, red and amber eyes glowing in backward glances at Jaime Lannister.

His next visitor that day was the most unwelcome surprise of all.

“Jaime Lannister.”

Jaime looked into the smug, mocking face of Petyr Baelish and his cold, gray and green-flecked eyes.

Jaime heaved a great sigh and inclined his head.  “Littlefinger.”

Petyr sat on the low stool outside the cell and shifted his gleaming gray cloak to better sit his narrow shoulders.  Jaime watched as the old Master of Coin ran his slim, ringed fingers through the thick fur of the sumptuous pelt.  “It is _Lord_ Baelish now, ser.  The Lord of the Ayrie, the Vale and Warden of the East.” With his pinky finger, he adjusted the lapis eagle on his soft gray tunic, the sigil wrought in fine, deep gold.

Jaime watched him through slit eyes.  “Quite the big come up in the world for such a little man. Except, as I recall, Daenerys Targaryen took the Vale, Baelish. And all your vast lands now lie under the shadow of _dragon_ wings.” Jaime returned Littlefinger’s sneer of a smile. “I confess, I thought a Master of Coin would be much better at sums. It would seem you miscalculated when you flew your eagles to aid the wolves instead of bending your knee to the dragons.”

Petyr’s eyes flashed with glee.  “Have I miscalculated, my dear lion? Are you _certain_ , Ser Jaime? You know, all my years of owning brothels, hosting great emissaries, listening to stories from rocky Skagos to the far Summer Isles has taught me much more than I _ever_ hoped to learn. But the most valuable lesson I learned is this: _patience_. I have learned life _always_ takes such… _suprising_ twists and turns, yes, if only you muster _patience_ to wait. Like me, coming here, to Winterfell, all to aid our King in the North. Or releasing Sansa into the _sturdy_ hands of Brienne of Tarth. Or marrying my sweet, _sweet_ Lysa Arryn, only to lose her to a crazed, debauched singer.” Baelish smiled and cocked his small head. “Sometimes the best way to baffle your enemy is to make moves that have no purpose, or even seem to work against you.  But before long, what is on the bottom, Ser Jaime, soon rises to the top. And what is on the top,” his smile widened, “sinks so… _low_. And who but _you_ would know better this truth?”

Jaime blinked at him, his voice soft. “And if I am indeed so _lowly_ , I would still sit higher than you, Littlefinger. What do you want of me?”

“Oh, a little chat is all I want, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime gave a sharp bark of laughter, sharper than Littlefinger’s shrewd eyes. “Am I to believe that is _all_ you want, Petyr Baelish?”

“Of course. And to serve at the pleasure of the King in the North.”  He paused to smile, a chilling sight.  “And the… _lovely_ princess, Sansa.  Who I might remind you, has a particular _animus_ for our late King Joffrey.  Your… _relation_.  But I wonder?  What are  _you_  doing here, Kingslayer?”  

Jaime noted he made no mention of serving Arya or Rickon and grit his teeth at the slur.  “So it is _Kingslayer_ , now?  You’ve grown richer _and_ bolder, I see.  Once, you would never dare insult me to my face, Baelish.”

“Yes.  Once.  In a different time.  In a different place.  But I am _here_ ,” he swept open his arms, “and you in there.  And you were _always_ a Kingslayer, weren’t you?  No matter  _what_  we called you.  And I heard you called so many… _interesting, interesting_ …names.”

“I do not have time to hear what a flesh peddler calls a lion.  What do you want?”

Petyr gave a whoop of laughter, slapping his small hand against his slim thighs. “You don’t have time!  But Ser Jaime, that is _all_ you have.   _Time_.”  He deepened his smile.  “But not for long.”

“And while I still have it, my time is my own and I will not waste it on the likes of you.  What do you _want,_ you thrice damned serpent?”

Petyr Baelish’s smile seemed wider than the world. “What I always want, Kingslayer.”

Jaime looked at him, wishing he could ground this smiling creature beneath his boot.  No, here,  _here_  sat the  _real_ spider of Westeros.  “You want information, as ever, Lord Baelish.  Or as you call them, whispers.”

Petyr laughed, clapped his hands.  “Smart man.  Yes.  Information.  More priceless, more precious than gold.”

Jaime walked to his pallet near the wall and sat down, the chain around his ankle clinking.  “Well, I have neither gold nor information to give you.”

“Let me be the judge of that, Ser Jaime.  And if the information is good, _perhaps_ I can persuade Princess Sansa to mercy.”  He smiled.  “I have a great deal of influence with our Northern Rose.”

“Then she is a fool to trust you and you a bigger fool if you think I trust any word from your lying mouth.”

The smile died, then, on Petyr’s face. “When the King’s sword falls, Kingslayer, you will not be so glib.”

“No, you fool.  I will be _dead_.  Quiet.  Along with anything I have to say.”

Littlefinger sat back, studying Jaime through narrowed eyes.  “Has the great Maid of Tarth been to see the caged lion, I wonder?”

Jaime snapped his head to look at Petyr Baelish and his wicked smile. It took everything in Jaime not to strain against the chain cuffed around his ankle and rush for the bars, flinging himself at Littlefinger’s pointed, sneering face. Jaime knew he would never reach the bars and the cuff would make deep, bloody gashes in his skin. So he sat on his pallet, opening and clenching his hand into a fist.  “You know she hasn’t, you lying, treacherous up-jumped cockroach.”

Petyr looked at Jaime’s clenched hand and smiled. “But, perhaps, at a word from me to the princess and a word to the princess’ sworn sword, she would come, Ser Jaime, at last.  Perhaps enter your cell?  Yes? Kiss you with those thick, pink lips?  Touch your cock with those large, warm hands?  Crawl her big, bulky body beneath your furs?  Would you like that, Kingslayer?” He paused, his eyes twinkling.  “Or do you still dream of _lovely_ Cersei?”

Jaime choked down his rage.  “You disgusting, dishonorable pig.  I would never wish to see her again if she came on  _your_ word.”

Littlefinger’s mouth opened, as if wounded.  “You confuse me, ser. Am I a roach or a serpent or a pig?  Regardless of _my_ species, have I not always served the lions with loyal service?  I do not wish to see you die.  I offer you an opening, Kingslayer.  You would be wise to take it.  Give me what I seek and I can give you back your life.”

“You offer me naught but lies.  The only opening for me is the open grave.  You may lie to me but I will _not_ lie to myself.  I deserve to die for what I have done to the Starks.  And so do you.”

Baelish scoffed.  “You were always a rash, arrogant fool, Jaime Lannister.  Living from impulse to impulse, controlled by your whims.  Now those whims will be your death.  You will regret you did not treat with me when you roast in the Seventh Hell.”

“Worry not about my regrets, Littlefinger.  You will soon have your own when you are broiling there beside me.”

There were no more smiles from the thin lips of Petyr Baelish, only cold, glittering light from his eyes.  He stood to leave.  “You are right, Kingslayer.  I am a liar.  But I will tell you this truth.  You were never a smart man, no, that was your brother, the Imp.  Never cunning, like dear, sweet Cersei.  All you ever were was a sword attached to a hand and now that it is gone, you are _nothing_.  And I see, after all this time, you know _nothing_ of me. I do not want information. Varys knew more than the gods themselves yet he still fled in fear from King’s Landing.  No, Ser Jaime.  I want _power_.  Even more than I had in King’s Landing, in the Vale. Even more than I have now.  And I mean to have much,  _much_  more.”  He inclined his head, a twisting smile suddenly rising beneath his graying beard.  “Give your lovely sister my _warm_ regards.  I can’t imagine she will look any worse than the last time you saw her.”

 _I will kill you one day…this I vow…some way…some how…I will kill you…_ “You only tell me this because you know I will die.”

Petyr stood there, smiling.

“But you should have let me die in peace.  Soon, you’ll join me, Lord Baelish.  You’ll have the best seat, right there, in hell, with us Lannisters.”

Littlefinger turned to leave with the same smile, the soft scape of his boots against the stones growing softer and softer as he left Jaime in the cells, to walk above him a free man, to whisper, always whispering, at Sansa’s side.

Then Arya Stark came.

Jaime Lannister wished his golden head was rotting and sliding off a spike, already feeding the hungry crows.

 

 

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

 

“Guards!”  Jaime paced, his chain clanking, wishing he could run from the girl’s bold treachery.

“Ser Jaime-,”

“Guards!” He paced, the chain pulling, wishing he still lived on the whims of the road, roaming the bleakness of the Riverlands, begging for the cold mercy of the Dragon Queen in King’s Landing--- anywhere by trapped in this cell, this dungeon with the long face and pleading gray eyes of Arya Stark. Her right hand clutched the small pommel at her hip as her left hand gripped around a thick bar. “Ser Jaime, please-,”

“ **GUARDS!** ” He stopped to bellow his cry to the stone ceiling, certain that everyone in the north could hear his cries.  

No one came.  

He paced, again.

“I am sorry-,”

“No!”

“Please, forgive me!”

“ **NO!** ”

“Please!”

He stopped, facing her.  “ _Never_.” 

“Please forgive me, Ser Jaime.” Her voice hung heavy, thick with tears.  “I thought, I thought when I told them how you saved me on the road, saved  _us_ , saved the city they would find mercy, somewhere, inside them, for you.  Once they saw, heard how much even  _she_  could love  _you_ …I thought…I am sorry, so sorry.  I misjudged-,”

“How much they hate me,” he whispered to the floor.

Arya said nothing, her eyes refusing to look at him. 

Jaime whipped his body to face her fully, the chain jerking him back from the bars. “I tried to tell you, you stupid, _stupid_ girl.  I tried to tell you they would take my head for what my family did to yours.  How could they _not_?” He scowled at her.  “How could you believe it otherwise?”

“Because I saw you, Ser Jaime, I watched you in King’s Landing.  I watched you _try_ to save the city, try save the small folk, I saw you care for them, care about what happened to them, you fed me, you-,”

“YOU STUPID, WRETCHED GIRL,” he pushed through clenched teeth.  “That means nothing, NOTHING, to your sister and brothers.  Your family is DEAD, MURDERED by Lannisters.  Your mother and father and brother, DEAD.  All dead. Lost to Joff’s madness, lost to my father’s plots, _my_ lies, _Cersei’s_ lies.  We sullied the Stark honor, named your father a _traitor._ ” Jaime scoffed, a sharp yelp of laughter.  “ _Ned fucking Stark_.  A _traitor_.  Do you know how _ridiculous_ that sounds, even to _me_ , stupid girl?  I _understand_ why I must die, Arya Stark.  Do _you_?”

She swallowed, her voice small. “I thought-,”

“You thought,” he laughed again.  “You thought, what?  They would forget what I have done?”

“No.” Arya’s voice was suddenly clear, hard as she faced him.  “They will never forget.   _I_ will never forget.”

“And they will never _forgive_ , either.  They _hate_ me because they _loved_ them. And they want payment for their lives with _mine_.” Jaime glared, wide-eyed, at Arya. She stared at him, her wet gray eyes turned to smoky silver.  Then very slowly, carefully, he turned his back to her, facing the stone wall, his long legs drawn up to his chest.  Jaime wrapped his arms around his knees and began to rock, side to side.  He heard Arya shuffling closer to the bars, as close as she could without opening the door and stepping into the cell.  Most stood back, afraid he might suddenly break free of his great chain and magically slip between the thick bars to choke them before fleeing to freedom. Jaime heard her hands gripping and sliding around the bars.

“Ser Jaime.  Please.  Please look at me.”

He stared at the stones, feeling anger clench and burn his chest, heave his stomach.  It felt like a torch flared in the center of his body. 

They sat and stood for a long time, Jaime with his back to Arya and Arya reaching for him through the bars.  Time passed in the cell, so quiet, except for their breathing.  Soon, Jaime grew tired of sitting and lay down on his side, still facing the wall.  He heard Arya sit on the low stool kept outside his cell.

“My dancing teacher,” she said softly, a leg of the stool scraping across the stone floor, “ was the first sword of Braavos, a water dancer named Syrio Forel-,”

“Leave me alone!” he said to the wall.  “I do not want another one of your lies, you wretched fool!”

“This is no lie, my story.  And one, you must hear.” She took a deep breath and began again.  “Syrio Forel, the first sword of Braavos, would send me through the Red Keep to catch cats.  He told me that if I wanted to be a water dancer of reknown, I must be quick and quiet and cunning as a cat and when the moment came, a flash of my claws before the mice could move.  And the best way to become like a cat is to catch a cat---so that is what I did.”   She paused and Jaime heard a smile in her words.  “I became quite good, too. Soon, I caught all the cats in the Red Keep---except for one.  An old black tom.  A torn ear.  Do you know the one, Ser Jaime?  He was as vicious as he was ugly.”

 _Aye, I know the one_ …He said nothing, only glared at the wall.

“I know you know the one I mean.  Everyone knew this cat.  The entire keep feared him.  Joffrey.  The Hound. Even the Queen.  But I caught him once.  I still have the marks to prove it.”  Jamie stared at the wall but Arya rolled up the sleeves of her tunic as if he looked at her, revealing deep pink grooves on both her forearms, across the backs of her small, rough hands.  “I became even better at catching cats when I lived amongst the Faceless Men.” Then he heard the softness lower her voice. “My dancing teacher would have been proud. And when I returned to the Red Keep, I was not surprised that black cat was still there.  If the dragons ever burned that stinking city, I am certain only this mangy cat would survive.”  Arya chuckled.  “Truly. When I arrived in King’s Landing, I learned two things, Ser Jaime.  I studied you and learned why Lady Brienne came to love you, the Kingslayer.” He could not help it, his head turning to look over his left shoulder, before whipping his eyes back to the wall.  “Oh, she could never admit it, not like you did, that night in your chamber when I brought more wood.  But it matters not.  I was taught to see without eyes, no matter how deeply hidden.  The second thing I learned was _why_ that cat was so angry.  The cat was angry because he could not find her.  No matter where he looked, and he looked all over the city, he could not find… _her_.” Arya’s voice barely carried to him through the bars. “And I know what that feels like, to be lost from those you love.”

He turned, finally, to face her. Jaime was afraid for a moment, afraid to see what face, stature she might wear.  He felt a lift of relief to see _Arya_ , all long face and dark hair and gray eyes looking at him through the bars. Jaime could not stop himself from turning over, from sitting up, could not stop himself from asking, “Who?   _Who_ was the cat looking for?”

Arya’s eyes shone clear as starlight. “Rhaenys.  Rhaenys Targaryen.  He could not understand, after all this time, why she had left him alone.”  

Jaime blinked back tears. “She didn’t leave him,” he whispered.  “She would _never_ leave him, I remember that kitten, she _loved_ him. Gregor Clegane killed the little princess.  She _died_.  She didn’t abandon him.”

“I know.  And I explained this to the cat.” 

Jaime squinted at her, trying to understand what she meant.  “You explained this to…a _cat_?”

“Yes.  She named him Balerion, for the black dragon. Balerion the Dread.” Arya’s chest rose and fell with a deep breath.  “I told Balerion what happened to Rhaenys after I used him to shift into the mind of the man, the _monster_ , that killed his little princess.”  Jaime sat up straighter, slowly, looking at the gray-eyed girl.  Arya stared at a point past the bars, just above Jaime’s head.  Her voice sounded flat as she stared into a place, a time he could not see.  “A few days passed before I found Balerion.  I searched in the alleys of King’s Landing, on the roofs, in the kitchens and shadows of the Keep.  I knew you grew anxious but I used patience to find him.  Anyone who found him in Cersei’s rooms would be too frightened to approach him, to try and catch him, scare him off, like they would with any other cat or creature.  When I finally found him, I put him to sleep with a potion I stole from Qyburn then put him in a bag and brought him to a room I knew no one ever entered.  I needed to be safe, undisturbed.  I waited for him to wake and when he did, I shifted into his mind, let his mind become my mind.” Jaime could barely hear the girl as he sat gaping at her tale.  “I saw Rhaenys, then.  I saw what he searched for. I felt his hurt, his anger.” She stopped, swallowed, her voice a slight tremble. “I felt his sorrow, Ser Jaime, and it felt so much like my own.  But then, I overcame him and went to Cersei’s rooms.  I hid in the shadows, waited until someone left a crack in the door and slipped inside to wait.  I did not wait long, Ser Jaime. The Queen returned as always to take her afternoon pleasure with the two new Queensguard. The Mountain stood watch while the guards removed their armor. And I wasted no time.  I crouched under the bed and shifted into Gregor Clegane.  I grabbed Cersei by the neck and tried to kill her then but the soldiers attacked.  I threw them off.  I did not mean to kill them but I misused the Mountain’s strength.  I am sorry I killed those two men.”

“I am not,” Jaime snarled.

Her eyes widened as she stared at him. “Do you not understand? She _raped_ them, Ser Jaime. She _hurt_ them. She did horrible… _things_ to them and serving women, too. She raped them as those men meant to rape me and Weasel.”

Jaime said nothing, could not meet her eyes. It all came together, clear as heartbreak, and Jaime knew Arya’s words rang true. Jaime wondered where Cersei took her pleasure when he returned to King’s Landing. He closed his eyes. _Fool. Thrice-damned fool._ Now he knew.

His sweet sister’s pleasure was others’ pain.

Arya stared at him, her eyes and voice sad. She nodded.  “I see it there, all over you, Ser Jaime  She hurt you deeply.”

“Of course she did, girl,” he snapped. “That was all Cersei ever knew. Hurt and hate.”  Jaime turned his face from the pity in Arya’s eyes.  “Yet, everything I did, everyone _I_ hurt was for love.” He laughed.  “Cersei’s love.”

Arya nodded.  “And now it is hate.  For her.  For yourself.  Except, she is dead and gone, Ser Jaime, beyond your hate which was once love.  So if you survive what we do to you, will you survive what you do to _yourself_?” 

Jaime whipped his head to glare at her, curling his fingers into a fist.  “Save your clever riddles, stupid girl, and finish the tale you have started.”

Arya sighed and scratched under her chin.  “I suppose I owe you that.”

“You do,” he scowled, “and more.”

“Well, then. Here is the balance of my tale.  Once the guards lay dead, I snapped Cersei’s neck, tore her head from her body.  Then I made the Mountain kneel and spear his own sword through what passed for his brain.  A near thing, too.  It is but a flash between a living and unliving mind, even less with the walking shadow of Gregor Clegane.  I almost missed shifting back inside Balerion in time.  When the cat returned to the room, I stayed in his mind, reached deep to tell Balerion about Rhaenys. I told him how together we killed the monster that butchered his princess.  When I shifted back into myself, he lay in my lap.  He was old, tired and old. A bag of rattling bones, really, underneath all that black fur.  But now, _now_ , he could let her go.  I held him as he did.  I felt him purr as he slipped away, Ser Jaime.”  She smiled, a lift of her lip.  “He died, finally happy.  And so was I.  For me.  For Balerion.  For my family.  For the princess.  For the realm.  I was happy even for _you_ , Ser Jaime, you and Lady Brienne.  It felt like… _justice_.”  Her smile faded away as she turned her eyes to stare at the floor.  “But then we burned Weasel.  And there is no justice in that. And there was nothing I could do to help you protect her.”

Jaime launched to his feet at the sound of her name. “Stop it! Not another word, not another lie, Arya Stark!”

“I could not help you!”

His laugh was as biting as it was bitter. “You could not help me? Do you expect me to believe that, fool girl?”

“I am not lying, Ser Jaime! I could not-,”

“I **SAW** what you did to Gregor Clegane! I saw what you did to my sweet sister! You tell me you skin-changed into a gods damned cat to _brutally_ kill them both and _yet_ now you tell me you could not change to help me defeat the Others and save Weasel! She died because of _you_ , Arya Stark!”

“I **_KNOW_**!” she screamed at him. “And I could not stop it!”

They stared at each other through the bars, their eyes wide, breath shallow. Jaime snorted, shook his head and turned from Arya Stark.

“Ser Jaime! Please do not turn from me.! Please, I beg of you! Please listen! As you lost your hand, I lost my skill to shape change.  I had no choice!”

Jaime roared as he turned to her. “What the hells do you mean you had no choice?  Did you not _chose_ to change into a babe?

“No, Ser Jaime.  It was them that changed me.”

His flung his arms wide. “ _Who_ , Arya Stark?  _Who_ changed you?”

She bit her bottom lip, her voice a whisper in the dim cell.  “The gods.  The gods changed me into Baby Girl.  Many times I meant to leave you, come back to Winterfell alone but they warned me to stay, to protect you. But I ignored them. I listened only to myself.” She paused. “And they changed me…into a babe. They warned the only way I could return as Arya Stark was when _you_ brought me north, when we saw the wolf running across the clouds.  When I saw the banner I knew-,”

“And they name _me_ a liar." Jaime gaped at her, his mouth slack as he shook his head.  "You expect me to believe the _gods_ , the fucking _gods_ , Arya Stark, transformed you into a helpless babe?  _Why_?  Why would they do that to you?”

Her still face was ashen and waxy in the flames from the torches.   Arya’s eyes slipped once more from his, to a point behind his head. “ I grew too bold and too cold in my killing. I forgot the gods of my people. So they humbled me.”

“And Weasel?  What of _her_ , Arya Stark?  Why won’t you simply admit you wanted to hurt me by letting her _die_?”

Her eyes seemed to leap from her head. “Do not _dare_ say such words to me, Jaime Lannister! I _loved_ her. Are you _not_ listening?  Do you _not_ understand?  I was not merely transformed into a helpless babe. I **WAS** a helpless babe!  Do you not think I would have helped her, _saved_ her if I could, Ser Jaime?  I once knew that girl, loved her-,”

“Wait. What do you mean you knew her _once_? Once, when?” Jaime peered at her, his eyes narrowed as he shuffled closer to the bars.

“The people she spoke of the night you butchered the horse? The people who found her, saved her?  That was _me_ , Ser Jaime.  And when they captured us and took us to Harrenhal, she escaped, ran away. “ Tears brimmed from her eyes and overflowed down her cheeks.   “I never knew what happened to her until she found me as a babe and cared for me as I once cared for her.  I loved Weasel,” she ground out between her teeth, dashing the tears with the knuckles of her hand, “and I would have transformed myself in a blink if I could to save her.” She paused to look at him with watery, red eyes.   “And to save _you_ , too.”

“To save… _me_?”

“Yes, Ser Jaime, to save you.  My life depended on your protection, yes.   But I saw you care for us, carry us.  I saw how you suffered as you walked the Riverlands, I heard you cry out in your dreams, I heard your cries, Ser Jaime, I heard your cries of Cersei’s name and your children’s names.  But I heard other names, too.  You cried out for my mother, you sobbed my brother’s name. “ Arya turned to gaze at the shadows in the corner.   “I even heard you Ned Stark.”

Jaime gave a small huff of laughter, sitting heavily on his low stool.  “Yes, I am followed by many ghosts, Arya Stark. And I swore a vow to your lady mother.  I vowed to return you and your sister to Winterfell.”

Her eyes found his. “And you did.  You kept your word.  You sent Lady Brienne and she found Sansa.” She smiled.  “And you brought me home bundled warmly in the folds of your cloak.”

Jaime returned her smile though his, edged and sharp. “And my reward is my beheading for keeping faith with your lady mother.  I will pay with what is left of my life.”

“Yes, my sister and brothers want your head.  They want your blood.  I did too, once.  But I am trying to make them understand.”

“ _Understand_?  Understand, what?”

“Understand why they must spare you and not only because you brought me home.  The gods told me I must bring you here, for what purpose I do not know.  But I am sorry it took losing someone we _both_ love to understand this truth.”

Jaime looked at her and said nothing.

Arya’s brows beetled together. “But I do not think she was meant to find us.”

The fine hair rose along the back of Jaime’s neck. “What do you mean, girl?”

“ _You_ were meant to find me, as I found you. _You_ were meant to come here, to bring me home. Only two were sent for this journey north. So why were there _three_?”  

Jaime’s mind flashed back to the night of the attack, of the cold ones, their dead, blue eyes, the dragonglass daggers, Widow’s Wail aflame with silver fire and his voice chanting spells. “Well if the gods did not send for her, Arya Stark, then who did?”

Her eyes held his, steady and strong. “Others who did not wish us to return.”

Jaime shook his head, remembering the girl’s heart, her love, her loyalty for them both. “No. There was no evil in Weasel, truly. But there are other forces here, dark and hungry for warm blood. And where a White Walker may fail, our love, our duty may not.”

“What do you mean, Ser Jaime?”

He smiled. “Only what I know so deeply. That our hearts can be used against us.”

“Yes,” Arya said, a whisper. “Truly. Nothing is more powerful, more weak than a broken heart.  Do you know I loved it, Ser Jaime? I loved the power of killing my enemies, the power of avenging my family, name by name. Like a prayer, their wicked names became to me. I chanted them every night before falling asleep. A lullaby of names. And when I dreamed, I dreamed of running blood, hot and sticky over my hands.” The flatness of her voice returned, chilling Jaime.   “I loved seeing their blood run, loved hearing their cries for mercy.  I loved smelling them soil themselves in death and panic.” A smile touched her lips.   She wrapped her hands around the bars and it looked to Jaime as if she stood in a cell of her very own.  “Love changed me into the monsters I hated. I am a monster, truly, Ser Jaime.” Her eyes turned glassy and distant.  “Like Joffrey Lannister, like Gregor Clegane, like Meryn Trant, like Walder Frey-,”

“Stop.” Jaime’s voice jumped against the stones.  “You are no monster Arya Stark.  Remember that.  You are only what men like me have made you.”

“Yet you do not believe the same of yourself, Ser Jaime.”

He turned from her bright eyes. “This broken realm and Jon Snow and Sansa Stark would agree with me.”

“Yes. Yet you must not pay with your life.”

Jaime shrugged and lifted his only hand. “But what more do I have, girl?”

“The gods only know. And the gods sent you here.” Her eyes sharpened. “And there is much good in you, Ser Jaime.”

He snorted. “Ah, yes. _Goodness_ , Lady Arya. Goodness will not return your family to these halls.”

“No.  But neither will killing you.”

“Truly.  But your brothers and sister will rejoice, nonetheless, to see my blood run down the king’s long blade.”

Arya’s eyes shone in the darkness, hot, gray stones. “Then we will all pay the price for a small taste of vengeance. And we are not done paying, whatever the cost of this war.” 

“Perhaps, girl.  But to them, my death will taste of justice. And when the Others come, you will have your justice.  Take it. For her.  For me.  Now, go.  Leave me a moments peace before I die.”

She watched him then nodded.  “I will.  But you never told me what you dreamed of Lady Brienne, Ser Jaime.”

He gave a bark of laughter.  “So stubborn to the last, Arya Stark. Fine, I will tell you.  We had two flaming swords, myself and Lady Brienne.  I fell, stumbled in the darkness and my flame died in the darkness.  But Brienne still stood, her blade blazing, protecting us, protecting me where I lay, fighting for us both.  When I woke, I knew I must return for her.”

Arya gasped, her hands gripping tighter the bars. “You fought the shadows, Ser Jaime. Both your swords were aflame. It is as I saw, too. In my own dreams.” Her wide eyes shone.

“You saw… _us_? In _your_ dreams?”

“Yes. In the gods warnings to return with you to Winterfell.”

He shook his head then leaned it back against the stone wall. “They warned _you_ , Arya Stark. Not your brother, the king. But it matters, not. Not anymore.” Jaime’s eyes slid to the wolf’s head carved into the pommel of her thin sword, so dark it blended with the shadows. He looked up and smiled at her furrowed brows. “If anyone can avenge our Weasel’s death and all of Westeros, it is you, not a one-handed knight.”

She tried to smile but it thinned to a grim line. “I will _try_ to make him understand, Ser Jaime. And I stand not alone in trying.”

Jaime lifted his head from the wall, his eyes dry as he looked at her. He felt lighter than he could ever remember. “Something good, at last. You told her the truth?”

She nodded, her face a fierce thing to behold. Jaime smiled. “Thank you, Arya Stark. For telling her what I told you in King’s Landing, what I told Weasel of her beauty.” His smile glowed. “For telling Brienne I love her.

She swallowed thickly, nodding again.

He eyed the rapier dangling at her hip. “I know you are good at catching cats and killing queens but are you any good with that slip of steel, girl?”

Her mouth curved up into her long face. “Of course, Ser Jaime. Why?”

He put a finger to his lips. Arya tipped her head and gave a flick of her eyes to the entrance of the cells. “Brienne is loyal but not skilled in intrigue. Jon struggles under the weight of that bronze crown. Rickon is a ferocious child and Sansa hides her trust in the wrong places. You will need that sword before long, Arya Stark.” He leaned forward and whispered his last warning. “And a wolf’s eyes see far, like an eagle’s.”

Arya was a blank mask. But between a blink of Jaime’s eyes, many faces seemed to pass over the still surface of her long face. Jaime remembered the pink gaze of his sister, her bloody, twisted neck and did not envy the greedy, grasping Littlefinger.

Jaime closed his eyes.  “Goodbye, Arya Stark,” he said as he opened them. Gone were the flickering faces. “I loved her, little Weasel.”

“I know.  I did, too, once, a lifetime ago.”

“And I loved…Baby Girl.”

Arya stared at him, all gray eyes, all her own. “I know. And she loved you, too.” 

Jaime looked at the floor, seeing soft, brown eyes staring up at him. When he lifted his head, Arya Stark was gone, slipped away on cat feet, without a sound, into the shadows.

 

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

 

Later that night, Jaime awoke in his cell, the dream fresh as a spring wind across his face.  

He awoke from a dream of dueling in the yard with Prince Rhaegar, when Jon returned later with a grim offer, his quiet wolf by his side: an execution for his crimes or a trial by combat.

It took Jaime a moment to realize both his sword hand and his prince were gone before he asked, “Who is the Stark champion?”

Jon smirked through his dark beard. “The Princess Sansa’s sworn sword.”

Jaime sat up and shook his head.  “Lady Brienne?”

Jon nodded.

Jaime said nothing, only stared past Jon Snow. Then he lay down on his back, staring at the stone ceiling.  His voice rose above him. “I chose the sword.”

“Which one, Kingslayer?”

He turned his head to look at the boy and for a strange moment, his dream came back to him, unbidden. Ghost seemed to sharpen his gaze and drew closer to the bars, a whine buzzing from the beast's throat.  Jaime lost in the dream, lost the fight, knocked into the dirt by the Dragon’s dance but Rhaegar helped him on to his feet with a laugh and a clap on the shoulder. Jaime remembered the sun shining off his long silver hair and the circlet over his strong brow. Ghost whined again and Jon looked down at his wolf before looking at Jaime.  “ _Your_ sword, boy.  That is the one I choose to cut through my neck.”

“Then you will die in two days time.”  Jaime said nothing and Jon waited. Then, with a twist of his fingers by Ghost's snout, the King in the North turned to leave. But his white wolf lingered for a moment at the bars, his red eyes on Jaime's face. "Ghost!" Jon called, "to me!" The wolf blinked then turned at Jon's whistle, leaving Jaime Lannister in his cell.

Alone again, Jaime returned his gaze to the ceiling, felt the tears slip under the corners of his eyes, leaving trails of wet warmth past his ears, into his hair.  Of course she is their champion.  Of course she would fight for her lady against all those who have hurt her, enemies like him.  Of course there is no one in all of the north whose honor is more true than the Lady Brienne’s.  

Jaime put his hand over his heart, his chest so tight, so clenched. With a thin smile, he wondered if he would ever breathe again. 

Surely Brienne knew he could never hurt her much less  _kill_  her?  

_But…but…would she?..._

Jaime already knew the answer, felt the truth sliding down his face to the back of his neck.  It would hurt her, yes, break her apart but she would do it.  He knows she would, knows _why_ she would but it will not stop his warm tears.

 

 


	9. Debt of Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Lannisters are not the only ones who pay their debts...

_Ned._

_Robert._

_Catelyn._

_Robb._

_Tywin._

Blink.

_Tommen._

_Mrycella._

_Joffrey._

_Weasel._

_Areys._

_Rhella._

_Rhegar._

_Elia._

_Rhenys._

_Aegon the babe._

_Viserys._

Jaime blinked again.

_Tyrion._

_Danerys._

_Jon._

_Sansa._

_Arya._

_Rickon._

Jaime swallowed the thick lump wedged in his throat.

_Brandon._

The names, on and on, never ceasing.

Jaime Lannister sat alone in his cell, his knees drawn to his chest, reciting in his mind all of his names to the corners of the dim box of the room. His head hung down. Jaime’s eyes flicked through the faces sliding across the rough stones, the faces of those he helped murder or orphan or maim when he took his own sister to bed.

He remembered what Arya told him of her names, her lullaby of revenge, his own names passing under this memory.

But there was no cold vengeance in his names, only a painful twist of regret in his remembering.

The faces of small folk he passed on the Gold and King’s Road flashed before Jaime’s watering eyes. Hungry, cold, fleeing terror for more terror. _So many faces_ , he muttered to the stones, _so many vows._ Then a thought, a glimpse of golden Cersei when they were long-limbed, sun-browned children, before his eyes lingered too long on her peaked nipples and glistening mouth, before they whispered and shuddered together in the dark. The twins tested who could make the funniest face as they flung themselves from the jagged rocks into the deep, clear sea near their castle. He laughed now, as he did then, at the puffed cheeks and crossed eyes she pulled while jumping into the frothing water. Jaime looked up from the floor, almost expecting to taste salt spraying across his mouth. Instead, the bluest eyes ever imagined stared at him through the cold iron bars, and with them, a scowl as beautiful and ugly as he remembered. Her bright, blonde hair was longer than when he last saw her and she collected the fine strands in a tight bun at the beginning of her thick neck. Jaime noted the freckles scattered across her pale skin, the deep cracks in her full bottom lip from biting it in thought or worry. Her broad nose tilted to the side, no doubt broken in battle or sparring. The blue armor he ordered made for her wide chest and back showed a few dents but shone bright with a squire’s steady care.

His wench.

The Maid of Tarth.

Brienne.

Her clear blue eyes burned through Jaime, searching over his body and face. She nodded then said, “Ser Jaime-,”

“Why have not come to see me, wench?” Heat surged through Jaime at the sound of her voice. He pushed his question through clenched teeth.

Brienne bit her lower lip. “I do not…why…why are you here?”

His green eyes glittered, hotter than wildfire. “Do not play the stupid cow, now, wench. You _know_ why I am here. Why have _you_ not come to see me?”

“Ser Jaime-,”

**_“WHY HAVE YOU NOT COME TO SEE ME?”_ **

She stared at him, letting the words ring round the cell into silence. Her firm voice was but a whisper when she spoke. “Ser Jaime, I cannot believe you would come _here_ , to Winterfell, to the Starks for _me_. It is ludicrous-,”

Jaime leapt from the floor and strode for the bars, straining to reach her. The chain yanked him back. Brienne jumped away from the bars, gripping the lion-headed hilt of Oathkeeper. He watched wide-eyed and mouth gaping as her large, sturdy feet slid into a fighting stance. He stared at Brienne, shaking his head.

“You think I mean to… _hurt_ you, wench?”

She stood away from him, folding deeper into the shadows of the hall, her hand still on the sword.

The sword he gave to her.

Jaime barked a laugh. It ended in a snarl, his eyes finding hers once more. “You _cannot_ believe my story, wench, or _will not_ believe?”

She said nothing but her eyes answered as they slid to a spot on the floor.

“Then how _little_ you think of yourself, my lady.”

She whipped her eyes to his face, her mouth twisted into a deep scowl. “And _you_ think enough of yourself for the both of us, _Ser_.”

“True,” he said through a sharp sliver of a smile, “but I am here nonetheless for _you_.”

“ _Why?”_ she hissed. “This is _madness_. They mean to _kill_ you. Why not flee to Essos, to the Summer Isles? Why not save yourself, Ser Jaime?”

Jaime pulled slow, steady breaths, tamping down his flaring anger. “How many times must I say it, wench?” he ground between his teeth. “Because _you_ are here.”

Brienne shook her head, her blue eyes deeply narrowed to slits. “Have you been bespelled, Ser? I know what I look like, I know I am no man’s idea of a beauty-,”

“ _Gods_ , Brienne!” he roared, the chain straining once more. “Who said _anything_ about your looks?” She worried her bottom lip in silence. “Eyes _lie_. How else do you think everyone thought _Cersei_ beautiful? I have enough beauty for the both of us and I would trade it _all_ , in a blink, to have one _drop_ , one measly, meager _drop_ of your innocence and honor!”

Jaime swallowed as he stared at her, his anger fading with every passing moment. He fought now to capture the lost words. In his mind, Jaime prepared the words while he journeyed through the bleak Riverlands, a hymn as he crossed and prayed through the grim, vast north, rehearsing what he would say to her when he saw her at last. But now, facing her---her bucked teeth, her large hands, hunched shoulders, her astonishing eyes---how could he say the words to those clear blue eyes with what is left of his life?

“Lady Brienne. I-.” He stopped. “I-.” He slowed his breath, trying to remember. He began again. “I-,”

“Ser Jamie-,”

“Be still and let me think a thrice-damned moment, wench!” Her face hardened and Jaime strained once more to reach for her, the chain rattling and pulling taut as it held him in place. “Lady Brienne, please. I am sorry. Forgive me. That outburst, like me, is unworthy of you.”

She dashed a look at him before looking away, giving him her broad profile. Her large, white front teeth poked out and never stopped squeezing her bottom lip. Jaime saw a flush spreading over her cheeks.

“Lady Brienne,” Jaime called to her, his voice soft. “Look at me. _Please_.” She turned her head at his plea, paused, then turned again. When at last she lifted her eyes and they fell on him, Jaime almost buckled under their weight. “There,” he whispered, “ _There_.” Lost forever were the words of his long, searing journey. Jaime claimed the words now beating through his bright, broken heart. “ _There_ is why I am here, wench. _There,_ in your eyes, the reason I risked cold and starvation and Wolves and wights. I told Weasel that you are the most beautiful woman in the world, Brienne.” She scoffed but it mattered not. His eyes held hers and would not let go. “ _In the world_ ,” Jaime repeated, heat and force on every word. “And every word I said is true. If the gods let me live and took my eyes instead, I would still see _you_. I would still see who you _are_. Brienne. Brienne the Beauty.”

They stared at each other across the great distance of his crimes and her honor, their quiet breaths the only sound in the gloom of the cell.

Finally her gaze slipped from his face as the freckled skin over her cheeks burst into crimson smudges. “Ser Jaime…I don’t…I don’t know what to say-,”

“Say nothing,” he answered, a whisper. “Only never ask of me or ask yourself why I came here again. And never forget who you are. It is this world and men like me that are ugly, Lady Brienne.” His eyes gazed into a corner of his cell. “Truly. But not you. Never, you.”

Her face softened, a little. And at that, Jaime began to cry.

It rose clear, in a moment.

Jaime choked down a sob and covered his face with his remaining hand.

He came to Winterfell for those eyes---pulled here by the weight of the scales. But he sees now. He cannot carry those eyes and his ghosts, too.

The ghosts he made from his love.

Jaime shuffled to the wall, sat on the stool, leaning his back against the cool stones. He sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Now you know why I am here.” A tear dropped into his lap, followed by another and another. He rubbed them into his breeches, felt the wetness seep into his clothes, against his skin. “I thought I heard you call to me at the foot of a weirwood tree.” He smiled at the floor through his golden beard. “The same tree where I dreamed of you long ago. I heard your voice say you were waiting for me, here, at Winterfell.” He looked up into her broad, gaping face and gestured to the cell. “And here I am.”

She peered at him, narrowing her eyes slightly, closing her mouth only to bite then release her lower lip. “I was born in the light of the Seven, Ser Jaime. It was not me you heard in the godswood.” They stared at each other through the bars.

“Then please accept my apology, my lady. Forgive me my mistake.” _About so many things…_

Brienne shook her large head, a smile tugging at her mouth. “There is no mistake to forgive, ser.”

He laughed, warmly. “But that is where _you_ are mistaken, my lady. I have made many, _many_ mistakes. But coming here is not one of them.” His smile deepened and opened across his face. “Not now. Not anymore.” She removed her hand from the roaring lion on her pommel and stepped closer to the cell.

_Now that I have retreated to the wall._

“I wish you had fled, Ser Jaime.” She blinked and swallowed. “Tomorrow, you will die.”

“I know. And I know you think me mad to come to the den of my enemies. But Baelish is right. I have always been too rash, too hasty.” His smile never slipped from Jaime’s face. “Especially when it comes to my heart. How is dear Podrick?”

Brienne looked at him, startled, then looked away. “He is a good lad. The best, really.” They both laughed.

“Then I was right to have sent him with you. Good,” he said, leaning his head against the wall, “good.”

Her laugh died at she bit her lip. “Thank you, Ser Jaime, for charging me with finding Princess Sansa and Princess Arya and returning them to the safety of Winterfell.”

“Safety, did you say?” Jaime gave a yelp of laughter. “Well, I once vowed to keep Rhaegar’s children safe and well,” Jaime lifted one shoulder and both golden eyebrows. “At least I will die knowing I kept my vow to Catelyn Stark. But between dragonfire and white walkers their safety may be short lived. And speaking of _short_ , how is Lady Catelyn’s _dear,_ old friend, our little lord with little fingers?”

Jaime could not miss the frown pulling down the corners of Brienne’s wide mouth. “Lord Baelish is Princess Sansa’s truest friend and ally, Ser Jaime, as once he was her lady mother’s.” She pursed her lips. “A fact he reminds her of daily.”

“Certainly. And how many men of the Vale did her truest _friend_ and _ally_ bring with him to take back Winterfell for the Starks?”

Her blue eyes narrowed to a razor’s edge. “Many.”

“More eagles than wolves?”

She nodded.

“ _Much_ more?”

She nodded once again.

A deep sigh filled Jaime’s chest. _Will this fucking Game never end?_ “The Stark girls are home, yes, but they are not safe. I fear no Stark or Snow is safe, my lady. For when I am dead and rotting, there will still be another enemy _whispering_ through these halls.”

Brienne’s eyes turned to ice between blinks. “Name them, ser,” she hissed.

He shook his head, flicking his eyes down the hall to the entrance of the dungeon. “ _Him_. The one she believes she knows well.” He smiled, curdling into a sneer. “The one who believes he soars high.”

Brienne’s jaw jumped beneath her freckled skin as the tall woman clenched her teeth. “I will give my life for hers against anyone who would dare harm her or her kin.”

“Yes, wench. I know.” His smile filled with sadness. “I remember our _chat_ at Riverrun. And Jon Snow told me you would champion the Starks.” Jaime smiled and shook his head at the redness in her cheeks draining to white. Brienne began to stammer and Jaime held up his hand.

“It matters not, Brienne. You are her sworn sword and you vowed to protect her against _all_ enemies. I once said those words, too, remember?” She nodded and color returned to her face. “The important thing is that _he_ knows this as well.”

Brienne’s hand tightened on the hilt of her blade. “Then he will know the bite of this steel.”

Jaime’s eyes flicked to her thick waist and he shook his head. “There are too many eagles. They will tear you a part. But the Little Wolf has returned home. And she scents the spoor of her prey.”  

Brienne nodded. “We will speak closely, then. And you should know that Lady Arya speaks in your defense-,”

“Do you?”

Her mouth opened wide in surprise. “Of course I do.”

Jaime smiled. “But the sword will still cut through my neck. It must. I understand.” He looked at her and whatever she glimpsed turned her cheeks a deeper red, like a sunset. Jaime saw the flare of her nostrils as she fought and failed to break from his gaze. “I heard about your father, Lord Selwyn.” He paused and swallowed. “And I wept.”

“And I heard of Tommen.” Her voice cracked, trembling as it carried to Jaime. “And of Mrycella, Ser Jaime. I wept, too. For you and for them.”

He nodded. “I do not doubt your tears, Lady Brienne. They are true and worthy and rare as the woman who sheds them.”

Her blue eyes sparkled beneath the water brimming over her pale lashes. “Ser Jaime-,” Brienne’s hand gripped a bar. She opened her lips to speak but shook her head, the words dying in her closing mouth.

 _Wench, I thought I would never see you after Riverrun…after tonight’s setting sun, I am certain never to see you again..._ “Promise me you will not come tomorrow. And when it is over, promise me you will not raise your eyes to the spikes. You have suffered greatly with memories of Renly, I know. How he died in your arms. So remember me as I am now, as I was before my end.” Jaime looked at her eyes, the goodness there and swallowed through his tears. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” she choked, the words a hoarse whisper as she fought to steady her voice.

“Goodbye, Lady Brienne.”

“Ser Jaime, I-,” she breathed heavily, as if running, as if fighting, as if her heart skipped over its own rhythm. “I...I-,”

He nodded and lifted his right shoulder in a little shrug. “I know.”

Brienne fought, then.  She struggled to stop the rippling across her face. Her eyes dropped to the floor, biting her lips against a sob.

“Why didn’t you run, Jaime?” she rasped to the stones. “Why didn’t you _run_?”

Her knees began to bend and the other hand flew out to grab hold of an iron bar. Jaime watched her struggle to stand, called her name but she shook her head. Jaime looked on in silence and felt tears sliding into his beard. Soon, her body grew still and her knees straightened, lifting her hunched spine tall, uncurling her slumped shoulders. Brienne sniffed. She pulled a breath from somewhere deep inside her wide chest. When she raised her head and looked at Jaime, her eyes and nose were rimmed in red. Her cheeks glistened with tears, her lips bloody, her face bleak and drawn tight against the broad bones but again under her command.

“Goodbye, Ser Jaime.” Her left hand slipped once more to the likeness of the lion roaring at her hip. The wench’s voice rang clear and even through the cell. Jaime’s lip trembled as he smiled.

_How I will miss you, Brienne…_

The Maid of Tarth and the Kingslayer stared at each other in silence for a long moment, openly, baldly, taking in every inch of one another. They passed hungry eyes over lips and nose and neck, raked their gaze over hair and jaw and eyes, willed their minds to never forget the other’s face, so long as they both lived.

Then with a quick nod, a squeeze of the bar, she left. Jaime turned to watch her go. Her shadow slid long across the floor behind her until it faded with the fall of her boots.

Much later, Maester Tarly came to check his wounds while servants brought his supper. The kindly healer found Jaime asleep on the stool, his lolling head against the stones.

“If you fall asleep like this,” said Maester Tarly in his sing-song chirp, “you’ll injure your neck, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime scowled at the maester. It felt as if someone rubbed the inside of his eyes with rough paper. “That is precisely what your _king_ intends tomorrow, Maester Tarly.” His voice sounded creaky and thick. “Except with a more _grievous_ wound.”

Samwell Tarly blinked at Jaime. “Right,” the fat man muttered. “Well, let us have a look anyway, shall we?”

The maester set about his tasks, all gentle hands and squinting eyes. But Jaime could not let her go, listless beneath the man’s fingers.

He grunted when Maester Tarly pressed a warm hand against his side. Jaime could not drag his eyes from the entrance to the cells and still heard the heavy sounds of boots stomping across the stone floor, looking for the tall woman who made them.

 

************************************************************************

 

Jaime’s last meal went untouched.

Someone noted his love of bread for many thick slices of a dense white loaf were piled on his tray next to a saucer of creamy butter. Two long legs of a hare, flecked with green rosemary and pearly cloves of garlic, filled the stale air of his cell. Small, brown potatoes congealed in the cold fat and juices around the dark meat. On a small plate lay a wedge of apple pie, the crust golden brown and sparkling with a dusting of sugar.

Jaime wanted none of it, knowing it would taste of naught but misery.  

 _Funny_ , he thought with a chuckle and scratch under his beard, _how a broken heart and imminent death kills so thoroughly one’s appetite._ Jaime heard their marching feet and a retinue of ten guards lined the corridor outside his cell. Jon Snow stalked down the middle of the bannerman, his wolf and an older man in his train. Heat flushed through Jaime’s chest, as if he was to die at this moment. But Jon Snow sent the guards away with a flick of his fingers and turned his gray eyes upon Jaime. The wolf and the older man came to stand on either side. Jaime slowed his breathing.

“The Maid of Tarth came to see you.”

It was not a question. Jaime nodded at Jon Snow. “Aye. She did. Thank you, boy.”

Jon scoffed. “Do not thank _me_ , Kingslayer. As I said before, I did not order her to abandon you.” He sneered. “That was her own doing.” Jaime said nothing to the boy’s taunt, his eyes sliding to the man beside Jon Snow. Jon followed his gaze and turned to the older man. “Kingslayer. Ser Davos Seaworth. The Hand of the King in the North.”

Jaime smiled at Jon’s hand. Davos Seaworth stood a slight man of ordinary face and wide brown eyes. His straight brown hair grazed the nape of his slim neck and his thick beard glinted with silver and gray strands. A simple brown and green wool mantle wound round his shoulders. “Ah,” said Jaime. “The Onion Knight.”

Davos inclined his head. “Ser Jaime.”

“But were you not once Stannis Baratheon’s hand, Ser Davos?”

At the mention of Stannis’s name, Davos Seaworth’s left hand went to a small leather pouch dangling from a strip around his neck.  Sadness drifted to the man’s eyes. “Aye.”

Jaime narrowed his gaze with a tilt of his head. “Then why are you _here_? And why are you this boy’s hand and not the hand of sour, sullen Stannis?” Jaime snorted. “Not that I blame you, Ser Davos. Even sour, sullen Snow is an improvement in company.”

Davos flashed his eyes at Jaime Lannister. “Stannis was a hard man, there is no denying. But seeing as there were three Lannister _bastards_ claiming his brother’s kingdoms, he was the _rightful_ heir to the Iron Throne. But I’m sure this story sounds familiar to you, Ser Jaime?”

“Ah, yes,” Jaime smiled. “I believe I wrote the tale, Ser Davos.” Davos returned Jaime’s smile, though not without a glimmer of kindness. “But you name Stannis as in the past,” Jaime continued. “Has something happened to the grimmest man in all the realm?” Davos broke away from Jaime’s gaze.

“Yes,” Jon Snow answered. “Stannis Baratheon is believed dead.”

“ _Believed_?” Jaime questioned. “You are not certain?”

“No. We heard tell he died attempting to wrest Winterfell from the Boltons. They never found his body.”

A chill danced along Jaime’s spine. “And how come you here, Ser Davos? Were you not fighting at the side of your liege lord?”

“No, Ser Jaime. King Stannis sent me to White Harbor, to treat with the Manderleys in alliance. Lord Wyman Manderley learned Rickon Stark yet lived on Skagos. He bid me take ship and find the boy.”

Jon turned to Davos Seaworth with a wide smile. “He found my brother and brought him home.”

Jaime remembered the lust for blood in the youngest Stark’s eyes. “A blessing, indeed,” he drawled. “Only, why is not Rickon Stark, the _trueborn_ son and heir of Ned Stark, King in the North instead of you, Snow?”

The smile died on Jon’s face. “The northern lords chose _me_ , Kingslayer, as they chose my brother Robb. That is how we made our kings of old. That is how we make them, now.”

“Well, that _is_ lovely, Snow. And what of Brandon Stark, hmm? What of him?”

“My brother went beyond the Wall, so Rickon said. And if he yet lives, his is a cripple, thanks to _you_ , Kingslayer. And the northern lords would never bend their knees to a boy unable to bend his own.”

Jaime pursed his lips and nodded. “Well. Then I hope for your sake Rickon Stark never hungers to wear that ugly crown.”

Jon scowled. Jaime could see the boy grinding his teeth under his clenched jaw. “Rickon will rule after me, if I get no heirs. And he will hold vast lands and keeps in his own right and name.”

“Will he? But what are ifs and maybes to the right of a throne?”

“Rickon is a boy, a wild child. The northern lords will never except him as their king.”

Jaime shrugged. “Perhaps not now. But perhaps they will, one day.” Jon’s scowl deepened. “I do not envy you, boy. Beset on all sides by shadows and whispers.” Jaime smiled. “How _thrilling_.”

“I have faced such before.”

“Truly. We heard tell of your astonishing death and rebirth in King’s Landing, of knives flashing in the dark.” Jaime’s words trailed almost to a whisper. “But it was not the knives that killed you, yes? No, it was the betrayal that tore pieces from your soul.”

Jon looked at him, his face still, but his eyes blazed through the bars like black suns. “You are expert at betrayal.”

Jaime scoffed at the young man. “Yes. And all of _my_ betrayals were for love or duty.” Jaime’s smile slid into a sneer. “You mean to say you have _never_ betrayed another, Jon Snow?”

Jon’s face blanched, his eyes flickered but a moment. Jaime wondered at the change. But before he could cut Jon with more words, the boy spoke, his face set to rights, the King in the North once again. “Concern yourself with your own treachery, Kingslayer. But for us Wolves, we will defeat _all_ of our enemies. Shadows, we kill with light. Whispers, we choke in lying throats. And those bringing ice or fire to the gates of Winterfell will be defeated as we defeated the Boltons.”

Jaime nodded, a slow rocking of his head. He knew he should keep quiet, take his words to the darkness of his grave but he could not. “Good. But the Dragon is not the Boltons, boy. Remember the dragons when these northern lords bent the knee, calling you “White Wolf.” Remember the dragons when these lords placed that bronze circle on your brow. You wanted to play the Game, bastard, remember. And remember how easily trueborn Robb _Stark_ was betrayed when he too wore a crown of the north.”

Jon’s face rippled in fury. “Your wicked, craven _father_ helped betrayed my brother.”

“Aye. Along with Stark allies. Because _my_ father, unlike yours, understood the Game. Yet both are dead and here we are to carry on the bloodletting, like good, loyal sons. I am the Kingslayer and the biggest fool in the realm and was never, _ever_ very good at the Game but my father told me this and I will tell it to you. The Game of Thrones shows no mercy, has no rules but those written in blood. The blood of those you _love_ mingling on the same sword with those you _hate_. Victory means little more than a throne of blood and defeat means death for _thousands_. So, I wonder, boy? Which side will the coin show for _you_?”

Jon’s mouth twisted beneath his dark beard. “Save your lectures and worry more about your _own_ fate, Kingslayer. You will not live long enough to know mine.”

Jaime looked at the floor, his voice soft against the stone. “Truly. But who will burn to cinders or be claimed by the Others there beside you? Do all you can to save your people, boy. Remember the small folk, like Weasel. They suffer most, they matter most, not us and the other high folk.” Jaime leaned forward, his chain rattling as he moved his leg. “Always put them first, Snow. If you do this then you will be the greatest king that ever lived.” He sat back, slitting his eyes. “Use them as fodder and you will be like any other fool to wear a crown.”

“I said I don’t need-,”  
**“JUST LISTEN, FOOL BOY!** They are coming, dragons or Others! Do all that you can, use all that you can to save your people! I am no maester, Snow! This is no lesson in Oldtown! These are their _lives_ in the balance!”

Silence rang around the cell. Jon glanced at the stone floor then up at Ser Davos. The older man nodded. _As one already_ , thought Jaime, with a smile. Jon turned his eyes to Jaime’s face. “I have thought to ask Danaerys to come, if we have need of her dragons.”

“Good.”

“But what if she will not come?” asked Ser Davos.

Jaime sighed. “So now we come to it.” His eyes sharpened on Jon Snow. “Why you are here, now, with your _hand,_ speaking to the dishonorable Kingslayer.” Jaime shrugged as he gazed at the boy. “Well, that may be her strategy. To conserve her energy, her army, her resources while you fight the White Walkers. She may believe she will eliminate two enemies without lifting a finger.”

Jon’s nostrils flared, the words grating from his mouth. “It seems a winning strategy.”

“Seems, yes. But there lies a problem in her reasoning.”

Jon beetled his brow. “What is that?”

Davos answered. “The Others do not mean to have only the north under their sway, King Jon. They mean to cover the world in their darkness.”

Jaime nodded. “Aye. And you must make her see, _understand_ what this means, boy. That if the Wall falls, if the north falls, then the world will fall with it.”

Jon stepped forward, his boots scuffing the stone floor. “How can we make her see this, Kingslayer? We are her enemies. She sees us as usurpers to her throne-,”

“As you are.”

Jon looked at him, eyes blazing. “I am no usurper, Kingslayer. We are of the First Men, here before the dragons-,”

“Yes, yes and the kings of old bent their knees to those same dragons, fool. They united seven kingdoms, not six. They had wolves and the Targaryens had dragons, as now. And remind me, Snow, _whom_ bent the knee to _whom_?”

Jon clenched his jaw once more. “So I should give up my throne, Kingslayer? I should give up my claim to the north? Is this what you suggest?”

 _Keep this up_ , thought Jaime, watching the king’s flexing jaw, _and he will grind his teeth to powder_. “I suggest nothing, boy. Only that you do what you must to save your people.”

“And what if saving them means fighting for the throne?”

“All thrones are made of naught but blood. If you must fight the dragons, let it be for more than your _own_ chair. Because here is the truth and you must make the dragon hear it. The real enemies are not wolves or dragons or lions. The real enemy is the great darkness and it comes to devour the realms of men no matter if they sit on the floor or on high.”

“How do I make her see this, Kingslayer?”

“I have no skill with statecraft, Jon Snow. But you are a king. And like you, the queen has a hand. I should begin there.”

“Surely your brother wants us dead, too?”  
Jaime answered but his eyes fixed on Davos Seaworth. “You would be surprised at what my brother wants. And the first thing on his list, if I hazarded to guess, is not hiding in a cold, dark world overrun with White Walkers. Tyrion is as practical as he is wise. Start with him, Seaworth.”

The Hand nodded.

“This could all be a trick, Kingslayer,” sneered Jon. “A trick to get us to open ourselves to the dragons.”

“Aye, it could be. But it’s not. The Others took Weasel and I was the only friend she’d ever had. I won’t be here to avenge her.” His eyes glinted. “But you will.”

Jon nodded. “This changes nothing between us. I will still take your head on the morrow.” He paused, his eyes harder than flint. “With what was once my father’s sword.”

Jaime gasped and narrowed his eyes. “With Oathkeeper or Widow’s Wail?”

“Widow’s Wail, we take back for House Stark. Oathkeeper belongs to Lady Brienne…and any of her heirs.”

Jaime whipped his head to gape at Jon Snow. “Heirs? And is she still a maid?”

Jon’s brow knit above his eyes. “Truly, Kingslayer.”

“Good,” Jaime sighed, leaning back, feeling his heart slow. “Truly.”

Davos glanced at his king then at Jaime Lannister. “Ser Jaime, if I may? You have given good council this evening, your last evening. We were unsure if you would give us answers. Why do you help King Jon?”

Jaime looked at the palm of his only hand. Ned Stark flashed across the lines, his grim face in the intersections of the calloused flesh. He blinked and saw handsome Rhaegar, his prince’s smile brighter than his silver hair, swinging his baby boy high into the air. Painted dragons danced on the curved ceiling of the royal nursery. Jaime snorted and shook his head. He failed so many children in his life. Especially his own. Jaime lifted his eyes from his lap. Jon’s wolf whined and stepped forward, pushing his snout through the bars before sitting on his white haunches. He watched Jaime with blood red eyes. Jon looked down at his wolf and squinted. Jaime never took his gaze from the quiet wolf. “I have already told you, Jon Snow. Guard well your people. And when I am gone, she will still be here, in Winterfell, with the wolves.” Jaime’s eyes rose to Jon Snow. “And all that I have to protect her, I now give to you.” Jaime crooked and pulled his pointing finger at the king.

Jon narrowed his gray eyes to look at him.

“Come closer,” Jaime said and when Jon stood at the bars, he lowered his voice. “If you disregard all that I have said today, remember this, boy. You accused me once of enchanting your sister. No, Snow. You confuse me for another. Do not trust the winged serpent. The eagles are circling about the battlements, looking for a roost, sowing confusion in their cries. And I have heard the stories. There should dwell too many here at Winterfell for your liking.”

Jon Snow and Davos Seaworth snapped their eyes to one another’s. The young king and old smuggler exchanged a charged look, their mouths pulled into grim lines. Davos nodded, a dip of his chin. Both turned as one back to the waiting eyes of Jaime Lannister.

"He smuggled my sister from King's Landing, came to help us defeat the Boltons-,"

“And outnumber you wolves by many score." Jaime gave a soft bark of laughter. "Sleep lightly, Jon Snow. And pray to your old gods that you are worthy to wear that crown---and it worthy of being worn.”

Jon watched him for a moment before jerking a nod, curt and sharp. Then the King in the North left the lion in his cage. Davos Seaworth’s rumbling voice matched the boy’s strides as they turned and walked the corridor, Ghost clicking at his heels.

 

************************************************************************

 

The sun rose later and later, its brightness dimmed in the pale winter dawn, looking more like the moon in a puddle than the nearest star. To Jaime, so long in the gloom of his cell, it shone as bright as one thousand torches, turning the yard to a silver blaze. His eyes watered from the bright glare and he heard whispers and wonder at his tears.

He was brought before them in chains. Two soldiers escorted him at his shoulders. Jaime felt their cold hands on his skin, pushing him forward. He stumbled twice as he walked through the yard, his wrists crossed at the small of his back. He did not sleep and wondered if this really a dream. Jaime refused Maester Tarly’s offer of a potion to calm his heart, his breath and close his eyes in dreamless dark. No, Jaime told the man, I will have an eternity of darkness with the rising sun. But there were noises, too, keeping him awake. Shouts or sobs and the howling of wolves---but no ringing of steel, no grunts or curses. Jaime peered up to the window cut high in his cell and saw no flames or smoke from the castle. He called for the guards but none came to tell of what caused the commotion. When the servants came to take his tray, frowning at his uneaten meal, Jaime knew Winterfell was not under attack. But they ignored his questions as they shuffled from his cell, leaving him alone to wonder at the noise and count his many regrets.  

People stood shoulder to shoulder in the yard and Jaime was not surprised all of Winterfell came to witness his execution. Jaime saw the throng, some even standing on tipped toes to better see the moment when his head rolled away from his neck. There were wildlings clad in pelt coats, men with the white wolf snarling on their chest guards, many more men with eagles soaring on the darks skies of their black tunics and cloaks. Jaime saw women and children, too, all clamoring for a look at the Kingslayer.  He knew someone must tell the tale, sing the song and it might as well be them who remembered how the Kingslayer looked when he was brought to the block, his hair pale gold in the weak winter sun, his green eyes looking straight ahead, though they streamed with tears. He scanned the blur of faces, looking for her even though he knew she was not there. As they twisted his hands behind his back, leading him from the dark dungeon into the glare, Jaime thought of Brienne. _Let your last memory of me be what you saw in the cell,_ he prayed, _not my dead eyes, lolling tongue, the soiling of my breeches, when they lop my head from my body._

He almost smiled to see she kept her promise.

Many spat as he passed, slimy, green globs in his path, but soldiers wearing wolves or eagles pushed them back into the people pressing from behind. King Jon feared the mob wanting tokens of the Kingslayer so he decreed anyone merely _touching_ the condemned shall condemn themselves to the same fate as Jaime Lannister. Instead, they used spit and curses where they would use hands and knives and Jaime looked only straight ahead to where his future was waiting and ended. Snow stood by the weirwood stump, his bronze crown low on his dark head, Widow’s Wail gleaming in his right hand. Maester Tarly huffed behind the king in an enormous fur cloak. Davos Seaworth in his simple brown and green mantle stood watching Jaime on Jon’s right. A small, comely young woman stood beside the maester and clutched his meaty hand. The girl’s doe-eyes were wide as she stared at Jaime. Beside the girl stood a tall woman of the Summer Isles, the black brows in her dark face drawn in deep furrows over her sad, almond shaped eyes. She wore the garb of an archer and Jaime saw the full moon etched into the leather plastron protecting her chest. All the Starks gathered closest to the weirwood block. Sansa, all ice and Rickon, all fury both watched him with narrowed eyes. Petyr Baelish stood behind Sansa Stark, a twisting smile beneath his pointy beard. His little fingers soothed her raised shoulders and he leaned forward to whisper something in her cold reddened ears. She turned her head deeper into his whisper and when her eyes found Jaime once more, her felt the ice in them piercing straight into his hammering heart. Arya stood off to the side, hard-faced and dry-eyed beside a young man the very image of a young Robert Baratheon. She saw Jaime, stepped forward, reaching for him. The boy grabbed her arm but she yanked it away and Jaime saw both her hands curled in tight fists. Jon cut his eyes to his sister, shaking his head.

“Jon, please!”

“Arya-,”

“He said-,”

“Arya-,”

“He warned us-,”

“ ** _SILENCE_**!”

Jaime heard only the whistle of a sudden wind blowing through the yard.

Arya stepped back into the broad chest of the black haired young man. She looked at Jon, her mouth a grim, taut line. Her eyes glittered like dragonglass, black with rage but she spoke no more. Jaime’s eyes slid past Arya Stark as he walked to the block. It felt like a century passed with each step, each rise and fall of his feet and Jaime felt every minute, second, hour of time ever given to him. He was told to kneel before the block. He fell to his knees, shaking, shivering, his heart beating resistance in his chest but it was over, soon it will be over and he will be just another ghost. He felt someone push his head down onto the block, his neck hanging over the edge stained maroon and brown with old blood, heard Jon Snow ask someone if they had any last words and Jaime realized, the boy spoke to him. He wanted to say, strike hard and true, boy, but Jaime could not utter a sound from his rattling teeth. His eyes were on the ground just before him. He tried to take deep, slow breaths to steady himself, stop the shaking, stop the trembling, but it consumed his body, his mind. He grabbed the stump with his chin to still his head and he felt the wood bite into the tender flesh of his throat. He saw out of the corner of his leaking eye Jon Snow planting his feet to heft the great sword.

Soon.   Soon.   Soon.

The yard seemed to take a deep, holding breath.

Jaime closed his eyes, saw eyes brighter and bluer than the midsummer sky in the darkness. He held his breath, waiting to open his eyes in the hells below.

“Hodor.”

Jaime’s eyes flew open.

“Hodor.”

Jaime heard the pound of feet moving across the yard. The pounding moved closer, came faster, crunching on the stones and gravel and salt rock thrown down to stop feet from slipping. He wanted to turn his head towards the pounding feet, wondered why his head still sat his shoulders, why his world had not gone black, why Jon had not brought down the sword to pay the debt with his blood. The pounding drew closer, closer. Maester Tarly rushed forward.

“My Prince, after your ordeal you should not-,”

A voice boomed over the flustered maester’s words.

“If you kill him, Jon, we all die. Not just here in Winterfell, in Westeros, but everywhere, all over the world. A night without end.”

Jaime turned his trembling head to the voice. A few yards away the pounding feet stopped.

“Hodor.”

A giant of a man stood smiling in the clearing made for him, a young man held like a babe in huge arms. The boy’s long legs dangled like wet clothes from the crook of the giant’s elbows. The boy’s gaunt face shone pale in the hazy light, dark circles smudging around his sad eyes. Behind him stood a short young woman, her thick brown hair gathered in a long braid down her back.  A direwolf, its coat as silver as Jaime’s flaming sword, peered at him with quiet yellow eyes.

But all Jaime saw were the soft blue eyes of the boy.

“Greetings, Ser Jaime.” His voice was deeper now, though not yet the voice of a man.

But Jaime saw the same blue eyes when the boy’s body fell, eyes stretched wide with fear. Jaime saw his own pushing hand retreat back from the chill air outside the window and into the room and the warmth of Cersei. The same hand, his sword hand he used to beat his foes into the ground or smash from a horse, the hand he used to bring Cersei to moaning completion, the same hand Vargo Hoat took from his wrist with a cleaver and later hung rotting around his neck.

The same hand he lost and wanted to die---but a big, blue-eyed wench would not let him. Jaime heard the thud of the boy’s body breaking on the earth and saw himself and his twin quickly righting their clothes, practicing their looks of sorrow, not a word said between them.

Jaime looked into Brandon Stark’s eyes, felt the scales break a part and screamed, dying at last for the sin of his love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Akira Kurosawa and the incomparable Toshiro Mifune and their retelling of my favorite Shakespeare tragedy, “Macbeth.” 
> 
> Kurosawa and Mifune’s masterpiece is the ultimate in fan fiction excellence. “Throne of Blood” inspired this chapter’s title and Jaime’s parting speech to Jon. 
> 
> Every time I glimpsed at my screen saver, General Taketoki Washizu’s eyes cutting deeply to their edges with intrigue, cunning and fear, I heard two voices: Nasir Jones insisting, as the Kingslayer paraphrased to Jon Snow, “I’m tryna kick the shit you need to learn though,” and Jaime whispering how the game of thrones never ends and only the faces change…


	10. At Grievances Foregone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Jaime Lannister reckons with the past and glimpses the meaning of his future...
> 
> Thank you to the wonderful Isola Caramella for generously agreeing to beta this chapter for me!

Jaime Lannister gasped, a strangled wheezing in his throat as he opened his eyes.

He realized he was not yet dead, this crowded, cold yard, not yet hell.

He closed his eyes and wailed.

His choking sobs filled Winterfell’s yard as King Jon snatched Jaime from the stump, the young king fisting the Kingslayer’s collar in his shaking hand. He glared at Brandon Stark over Jaime’s head, his full mouth twisting in a scowl. But Jaime’s eyes filled only with Bran. His brimming eyes fixed on Brandon Stark, trying to reach across the yard to this quiet, watchful boy.

Jaime shuttered through a sob. “Bran, Bran,” he gulped, sputtering the words. “I’m sorry, so sorry, it was wrong, we were wrong, it was never your fault, never, _never_ your fault, you did not deserve, you did not deserve what I did to you, what _we_ did to you, it was wrong, I prayed, I _prayed_ , oh, _gods_ , I _prayed_ -,” Jaime remembered his prayer then, choking him into a wordless wailing. He arched his back and released his sorrow to the skies. His prayer crippled this boy, crippled the realm, maimed and marred whatever future was meant for them all. Jaime tried to crawl forward to Bran, still on his knees, his wrists still bound behind his hunched back but he was pinned by each shoulder by Stark guards.

From the crook of Hodor’s arms, Bran flicked his eyes to the men at Jaime’s side.

“Raise Ser Jaime upon his feet, please.”

Rough hands reached under Jaime’s arms and yanked him up from the ground. He staggered for a moment, slipped back to his knees, but he was pulled again to standing.

“Bran, Brandon, Bran,” Jaime whimpered, “Bran, I am sorry, so sorry, so sorry, I thought, I thought love would save them, save my, my, my children but it killed them, it killed them, yes, and your family, took your legs, yes, I am sorry, Bran, oh, _Bran_ -,”

Bran’s eyes never left Jaime’s own. “Bring him closer, please.”

“Bran, **NO**!” screamed Sansa, echoed by Rickon and a stomping of the boy’s feet. Jon remained silent, his mouth a grim line. He turned to Ser Davos. The Stormlander pursed his lips. Then in the space between blinks, Davos Seaworth jerked one shoulder in a shrug, a tilt of his head. The guards hesitated, looked at Jon Snow. He narrowed his eyes, his jaw flexed over grinding teeth but he gave the men a quick nod. The guards brought Jaime Lannister closer to Brandon Stark, Jaime’s toes dragging lines across the packed dirt with the pace of their swift movements.  Jaime looked at the ground, blurred by his tears.  He tried to compose his face, rely on the banked arrogance of his golden pride. But it all burned away to ashes at the sight of those deep blues eyes pulling closer and closer to his own.

“Hodor,” said Brandon, “please kneel.”

The giant smiled, ducking his enormous head. “Hodor,” he answered and knelt, Brandon Stark sitting his bent leg like a chair.

Now, Jaime stood a few feet from Bran, still flanked and held by the guards. Bran turned his gaze to each guard’s face.

“You may let him go.”

Behind Jaime, Sansa hissed and began to speak.

“Hold your peace!” Jon Snow ordered. Once more, Jaime heard only silence. The guards stepped back, releasing Jaime from their grasp. Jaime fell again, driving his knees into the sharp pebbles and gravel in the yard. But Jaime felt nothing: not the rocks digging through his breeches and into his knees, his chaffed wrists beneath his chains, the cold wind whispering against his bare skin. All he saw and felt was the heat from Brandon Stark’s eyes. They stared at each other, Jaime Lannister and Brandon Stark, grown man and young man, captured by the other’s eyes. Jaime saw Brandon’s eyes, his falling eyes, and knew what he must say, knew what he must do. His voice wavered under the weight of his tears.

“If I still carried my sword, _any_ sword, I would pledge my life to yours, Prince Brandon.” Jaime’s voice dropped to a whisper though it carried on the wind throughout the yard. “I would never be parted from your side.”

“Lies!” bellowed Petyr Baelish. “We could fill the Vale with your broken vows, Kingslayer!”

“I called for silence and I mean to have it,” answered Jon Snow. Jaime heard gravel crunching beneath boots. “Hold your tongue, _now_ , Lord Baelish. Or you shall be escorted from the yard.”

Sansa Stark gasped. “Do not dare to threaten Lord Baelish, Jon Snow. He has served _my_ family well and is _my_ honored guest-,”

“And yet wolves rule here, Princess Sansa, and not eagles.” Steel flashed through Jon’s voice. “And as the White Wolf in Winterfell, I _will_ have silence.”

The crowd murmured. From the corners of Jaime’s eyes Vale soldiers shifted, but Jaime did not blink from looking at Brandon. If he must die, he wished this boy--the boy he harmed, the boy he pushed to his death, the boy he prayed would die—to know the truth of his words, his oath, his promise.

Bran smiled, a sweet, sad thing sending Jaime to more gasping tears. “I trust you speak truly, Ser Jaime.” Relief spread warm in Jaime's heaving chest at the boy’s quiet words. “Release him from his fetters.”

When the chains clattered to the ground, Jaime pitched forward into Bran’s lap, his face sobbing into the fur covering the soft, still thighs. Jaime tears thundered through his chest and shoulders at feeling the life stolen from Bran’s limbs. These long legs should be strong and leaping, pounding the earth as they ran with his wolf, shifting in advancement and retreat throughout the corners of the training yard, dancing with the pretty girl watching quietly beside him, walking tall and proud with the full glory of youth for the young man they bore through the world.  

For like Jaime, this gentle boy should be _whole_.

For like Jaime, he was broken and bore the crippling debt of Jaime’s sins.

Bran’s silver wolf stalked to Jaime Lannister with a whine, nuzzling the Kingslayer’s ear with his great, warm snout. Bran’s chill hands raked through the shaggy hair at the nape of Jaime’s neck. His fingertips lay cold against Jaime’s scalp. Jaime gripped the boy’s arm, shaking with the force of his wails, into the dead legs beneath the sable furs.

“Ser Jaime,” Bran called above the muffled sound of Jaime’s cries, “we are needed in the godswood.”

Jaime stopped sobbing long enough to lift his eyes, red and wet and thickened almost to closing with grief. “The _godswood_ , Prince Brandon?” he asked through a snuffling nose. “Who awaits us in the godswood?”

Bran smiled and laid a slim-fingered hand over Jaime’s soddened beard. “The old gods, Ser Jaime. They must hear your confession. Before our heart tree.”

Jaime nodded, almost stood, ready to run into the center of the godswood. Then he stopped. He turned his head then, breaking, finally, his gaze filled with Brandon Stark. He looked out across the yard, at squinting King Jon, the blanched face of Princess Sansa, Petyr Baelish murmuring in her ear; Princess Arya, tears streaming from her closed eyes, Prince Rickon, gaping, his eyes wide. Jaime saw the young man so much like King Robert squeezing Arya’s hand. Maester Tarly, blinked like a great feathered owl, a smile tugging open his mouth. The woman of the Summer Isles turned to Samwell Tarly, whispered something to the maester and the girl beside him and pushed through the crowd to the Keep. Jaime saw the guards and the small folk, the servants and wildings, all of the Starks, every eye on him.

He lingered on the slit, cold eyes of Petyr Baelish, the worry and kindness in Ser Davos’ gaze. He turned back to Bran. “Not only the gods alone, my prince, should hear the truth of my confession.”

Bran nodded as Jaime stood. His legs no longer felt loose and weakened by his burdens. Arya pulled her hand from the black-haired young man’s. She ran to the giant, calling, “Up, Hodor! Up! Quickly, quickly!” and lead the man to the heart of Winterfell, her fingertips pinching the sleeves of his cloak as she pulled him along the gravel path.

Behind, him, Jaime heard a horde of crunching feet as they followed.

Bran reached over Hodor’s swaying arms and took Jaime’s hand.

His only hand.

The hand he once thrust through an open window, meaning to kill the boy smiling down at him now.

Jaime lifted Brandon’s hand to his trembling lips.

Together, through the parting crowd, they walked and swayed to the godswood, fingers, like destinies, joined.

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

Jaime looked up at the boy gripping his hand and wondered at the changes in Brandon Stark. Gone was the baby still lingering in the face Jaime saw in quiet moments of shame and in place were the angular planes of a man grown. Bran’s eyebrows were thicker and there was a hint of stubble edging his jaw. His nose was still proud, all Eddard Stark and the grave Starks before him. Bran’s voice carried deeper tones now, more sure in their words and commands. _I have come to the right place…forgive me, Ned…I will try to be as a true knight to them, to Brandon and Arya and Sansa and Rickon, too, if they will let me…_ Jaime thought then of Jon’s scowls and judgments and sighed. _I cannot pretend I like the boy but I will try to help your bastard rule from his heart and his honor. I will protect them, I promise, Ned…_ He swallowed _. I will try to be the knight I never was, for them, Ned._

Soon they stood at the edge of the godswood and the silence from the beneath the trees spilled over them. As they went deeper into the wood, the paths leveled and smoothed from the steady beat of a thousand feet over a thousand years to the white boughs of the Heart Tree. Jaime felt the peace of the place against his heart, his mind, the deep quiet thrumming over and under and through him, and he wondered at whatever power lived here. They stopped a few yards from the Heart Tree and this great weirwood tree was one of the largest he had ever seen. The white trunk stood as wide as a tower, the ivory branches reaching out and up for what seemed like miles in all directions. Jaime craned his neck to see to the top and even then, his neck dropping down past his shoulders, the top of the tree hid from view. Beside the great heart tree was a pool of water so black, it looked as if filled with ink. The wind rustled through the red leaves of the tree.  Two leaves fell into the water, swirling on an invisible current, black against red, a white feather of a snow shrike dancing between the leaves. The face of the tree wept the same bloody tears Jaime saw running from the eyes of other carved faces but this was a tree of the north and the face was not a face of sorrow but a face of grim resolve. Whatever gods lived here did not meet the future with laughter or tears but in acceptance, determined to do what must be done with whatever given them by fate. He once hated the Starks for their grim judgment, their dour honor. He understood now, looking in the face of their great heart tree.

They had no choice before them but to declare, _“Winter is coming,”_ and prepare for the cold and death and darkness in its winds.

Arya stopped tugging Hodor’s sleeve and even her face, quick to show joy or outrage, was stilled in peace. Jaime still clasped Bran’s hand and now that they stood here, he found he did not want to let go of the boy's long fingers.

Bran squeezed Jaime's hand as he scanned his upturned face.  “Our Heart Tree once frightened me, too, Ser Jaime. But there is nothing to fear for a pure heart. A lion’s heart. For a lie is more deadly than the truth.”

Jaime turned and saw Bran looking at him with a smile from beneath long, dark lashes almost touching his wind-reddened cheeks. Ned and Catelyn made beautiful children, handsome children, why had he never seen it before?

He knew the answer before he could form the words in his mind.

He never saw them.

He never looked at them. He never saw their beauty, the hard beauty of the north in them. All he ever saw was Cersei, her, his golden sun when he stood in her light. Not even his own children mattered more to him than her. He once prayed to the gods that Bran die for learning the truth of their lie. Instead, their children died.

The children he could never love as Ned once loved his own.

Jaime looked at Brandon’s hand in his and tightened his grip, nodding his head to Bran’s words and the names circling in his mind.

_Your three names shall be the first I beg for forgiveness, my sweetlings._

“Do you know what you must do, Ser Jamie?”

Jaime blinked, shaking his head. “I was raised in the light of the Seven, Prince Brandon, though, I feel the truth of this place. What must I do to make amends, such as I can make them?”

Brandon looked at him for a long moment. Jaime felt those Tully eyes go straight to his heart. “You cannot lie, Ser Jaime. You cannot dissemble. You cannot hide. Our gods do not abide deceit and they show no mercy for those who would deceive them.”

Jaime nodded.   “Truly, Prince Brandon. I feel their power all around me. What must I do? Tell me what to do and I will do it.”

“You must kneel in front of the tree, in front of the face and speak your confession. Your crimes. Your sins.” Bran swallowed. “Promise to heal what can be healed, to do no harm to your honor or another’s. Vow to sin no more.”

 _So many vows_ …

But this time, this was a vow he did not make for Cersei, to be near her light, what he thought was her love. This vow, the vow he promised now on bent knees before the wolves’ grim tree, was the vow Jaime said for his own, true honor.

The truest vow of them all.

Jaime held Bran’s eyes then nodded once more to the boy. Then he unclasped his hand, knelt in the soft, damp grass before the face and began to speak, his voice carried on the wind to the crowd filling the godswood, his voice breaking over the names of his forsaken children, breaking over the names of the murdered Starks, his murdered father, the realm he swore to protect but tore apart in lust and folly. He asked Bran and the gods to forgive him for pushing the boy to his death and thanked them for taking the hand for payment for his crime and taking the easy, vicious arrogance attached to the name, ‘The Greatest Sword of Our Time.’   He begged forgiveness for all the orphans, _sweet, dear Weasel_ , created when he stroked between Cersei’s long, lithe legs, the women raped and murdered in the plunder of war, the men and boys and soldiers dead, maimed or broken in their minds. He asked the gods to forgive him for helping to beggar and starve the realm to keep their illegitimate secrets on the Iron Throne, a throne they had no right to claim. He asked Robert and Stannis and Renly to forgive his dark deeds, tearing the Baratheons a part. He begged for Rhaegar and Elia to forgive him, for their slain babes, the Queen as he listened and condoned her beatings with his silence, the Mad King for the only help he give for his twisted mind, his sword through his turned back.

The wind blew through the godswood, swirling the red leaves and white feather once more in the dark pool before it carried them to the heavens, beyond his sight. Jaime watched the sky where they disappeared then closed his eyes. “I pray for wisdom, patience, a merciful heart as I have been shown mercy.” As Jaime confessed, he felt lighter yet held to the earth by his knees. He thought of Tyrion and of Cersei, how both were made to confess sins of their own. Tryrion, with his confession of innocence yet sentenced to die as their lord father and Cersei always wanted. He thought of Cersei, denying every accusation yet knowing them all true. And then there was him, Jaime, who confessed his guilt to the heart tree of his enemies, confessed his sins to listening Winterfell and the dying realm at his back, Jaime who may live and live finally, with honor. Jaime spoke his last words. He lifted his eyes to the bleeding eyes of the heart tree and knew it like staring in mirrored glass.

“What of Cersei, Ser Jaime?” Bran asked, a whisper. “Do you not seek her forgiveness? Will you not give her yours?”

Jaime shook his head. He would not lie to the gods or himself. “No. Never. I do not seek her forgiveness. And I will _never_ give her mine.” He did not take his eyes from the face in the tree. Bran looked sadly at Jaime’s profile, proud, strong, still and always a lion.

“Very well, Ser Jaime. But where would you be if I did not forgive you?”

Jaime sighed, filling his chest. “You do not understand, Prince Brandon-,”

Bran laughed, bitterness edging the sound as he thumped his dead legs. “ _I_ do not understand, Ser Jaime?”

Shame flushed through Jaime’s cheeks. “No, my prince, of course you understand-,”

“No, you spoke truly, Ser. I do not understand, not fully. You spoke of power here in the godswood. It is an old power you feel, Ser Jaime, like love. Like forgiveness. One day, you will see Cersei in one you adore.  And you may forgive her, then.   Jon,” Bran said, turning to his brother, “may I have Ser Jaime’s sword?”

Jon stepped forward, his scowl deepened to a grimace. Ghost stared at Jaime without blinking. Shaggydog crept forward, a growl rumbling in his throat. “This is _Father’s_ sword, Bran, made from Ice. It is a sword of the North and belongs to _us_.”

“Jon, it has passed beyond Father. I know it pains you to believe me, believe Arya but the gods meant for Ser Jaime to wield that blade, to stand between us and darkness. As Lady Brienne is meant to wield Oathkeeper.” He turned to Jaime. “Its twin.”

Jon looked at the ground, his face changing and rippling with every breath. Finally, he stalked forward and thrust the hilt of Widow’s Wail into Bran’s hand.

“Thank you, brother.”

Jon said nothing, only cutting his eyes to Jaime in sharp silence.

Bran held the hilt in one hand and the blade in his other. He held out the sword to Jaime. Jaime stood and took the gleaming blade from Brandon Stark. Jaime knelt once more before the boy, always a Stark, once an enemy. Summer whined and nuzzled Jaime before sitting on his silver haunches. Jaime did not see the people stretching on into the godswood, spilling out into the yard. He did not see the one who crept, through her tears and prayers to stand with her hand against a tree for fear she might crumble to the ground. He only saw the Tully eyes of Brandon Stark, no longer falling, but looking back at him, into his heart. And what Bran found there made the boy smile.

“I called to you, Ser Jaime. At that weirwood tree near Harrenhal. And you came.”

Jaime blinked back tears, blinked in wonder, in understanding. “You saved my life that day.”

“Yes,” Bran nodded. “As I pray you will save ours.”

Jaime felt his jaw clench, all feeling burned from his mind but one. He laid his sword at Bran’s useless feet, determination turning his voice harder than the Valyarian sword before Bran. “I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours, Prince Brandon Stark of Winterfell. I will protect your family and your people as if they are mine own, as long as my heart beats in living. And I wish never to be parted from your side. I swear it," he said lifting his blade to the boy, "by the sword I now name Lion's Heart and by the old gods and the new.”

Brandon regarded Jaime from behind his thick lashes. “And I vow, Ser Jaime, that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor.” He turned to the heart tree. “By the old gods, I swear. Arise, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime rose with a heaving sigh, as a new man with a new heart. A new sword, he gripped in his remaining hand. Gone was Widow’s Wail. Here, from Brandon’s own words, Jaime held Lion’s Heart.

He swept the silent crowd and saw her, now.

She stood outside the press of people, back among the trees in shadow but there was no shade deep enough to hide the glint of her white-blond hair. He saw a broad, pale hand resting on the trunk of tree. The woman from the Summer Isle spoke to Brienne, her dark hand on her shoulder.  Brienne shook her head and the woman left her at the tree, fading into the edges of the crowd. When Brienne lifted her head, Jaime saw her mouth hung open, her eyes fixed on his and he knew she was crying.

Jaime swallowed through the tears brimming his eyes. What was true last night in his cell was still true as he stood at the foot of the heart tree, a sworn sword, like her, for the Wolves.

She was lost to him.

All he once did, all of he sins he uttered to the old gods, carried on the winds, he did for love. He looked across the silent faces at Brienne, stared at her hand.

_Never again..._

No, she was not Cersei, all greed and lust. She would never ask him to dishonor himself or the vows he just swore. He trusted her, yes, _always_. He forced his eyes from Brienne. But he did not trust himself.

Not with her heart.

Her precious, pure heart.

His eyes went back to her, pulled to her on their own and he wrenched them away from her hand.

He choose and he knew now, he knew what it will cost him.

It was not the Others, the gods knew.  The face _knew,_ it was not the Others with their long, cold blades.

This proved his hardest test yet.

For how was he to defeat his opponent, a blameless, open-hearted woman whose only weapon against him was the most astonishing eyes ever seen?

He brought his eyes back to Bran’s who saw something in Jaime’s face. The boy reached up, brushed the white knuckles around Lion’s Heart.

“Are you hungry, Ser Jaime? I confess that I am famished. Let us go see what we can find in the kitchens. And we have much of our journeys to discuss.”

A small smile lifted Jaime’s mouth. The wind dried some of the tears on his face.

When he looked up, Brienne was gone.

 

 ***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Do you like your room, Ser Jaime?”

Jaime walked to the window. He moved his hand across the glass, wiping clear the moisture to see the view outside. The dour face of the heart tree peered back at him, red tears streaming from the eyes. A snow shrike sang somewhere deep in its white branches, the sharp, trilling song reaching Jaime across the godswood. He saw the bird take flight, his eyes slipping to the carved face. _Those bloody eyes never sleep, will they, seeing all I do?_ Jaime snorted _. At least they will keep me true to my vows._ He turned from the window and the heart tree beyond, looking around his quarters in the Guest House. He stared at the great ironwood bed, the heavy headboard and frame carved with direwolves, their dark forms curling into open-mouthed snarls. It leaned against the granite wall. A long table sat in the middle of the room, though only two straight-backed chairs for sitting. A large chest rested against a wall on the other side of the chamber and across from the bed a cheerful fire blazed in the hearth. Why a fire would be needed in this room, Jaime could not guess. Although he was a southron man, hating the cold like an enemy, even he felt the heat pushing through the walls, warming him as he stood in the center of the wide room. His hand rested on the smooth top of the ironwood table. Jaime rapped the hard, black surface with his knuckles, giving it one, two, three knocks for luck.

He lifted his eyes to Brandon Stark with a smile. “Yes, my prince. Very much.”

The boy beamed, returning Jaime’s gratitude. Hodor adjusted Bran in his thick arms. “Water from the hot springs pipes through our walls in the Great Keep, as here in the Guest House, keeping us warm. Though,” he said, his voice dropping, his smile fading just a little, “it is quieter here. More peaceful.”

_More safety from those angry I yet live…_

Jaime deepened his smile. “Thank you, Prince Brandon. It is better than I deserve.”

“No, it isn’t,” answered Bran, his smile gone. “You were sent to us, called by the old gods to fight the darkness, defeat the Cold One. You are our cherished guest.”

Jaime barked a laugh. “I do not believe your brothers and Sansa Stark received the same message, Prince Bran.”

“No. But they will. Given time.”

Jaime scoffed then sighed.  “And when will we run out of _that_?”

“You know the answer, Ser Jaime. Soon.”

“They are coming?”

“They are _here_.”

“Is it too late?”

Bran shook his head. “Almost. Not quite. Not yet.” The boy swallowed. “But the odds are not good, ser. We have much to repair in taking back Winterfell from the Boltons. And I fear we will not be ready.”

“Then we must hasten to prepare, Prince Brandon. And never bet against a Lannister.” Jaime winked, looking every golden inch of Lann the Clever. “Especially one with you as his prince.”

A smile flared once more across Bran’s long face. “Then let us prepare.” He nodded. “Until supper, Ser Jaime. And I should mention-,” Bran closed his mouth against the words coming next.

Jaime raised his eyebrows at the pause. “Yes, my prince?”

“I should mention there dwell other southron guests here in the Guest House.”

Jaime’s heart dropped from his chest to his knees. “Do you mean to say-,”

Bran nodded. “Yes. At the other end of the hall. As well as Lady Nyo of the Summer Isles and Gendry Waters and a few others, too.”

“And Lord Baelish?”

Bran lowered his voice, shaking his head. “Not the eagle of the Vale. He sleeps in the Great Keep.”

Jaime pursed his lips _. Closer to his prey, then…_

Bran gazed up into Hodor’s smiling face. “Please take me to the glass house, Hodor.”

“Hodor, “ the giant answered. He turned and ducked his head under the door and left. For a moment, Jaime stood near the table. Silence pressed around him. He shook his head, unable to believe he lived as the sworn sword of Brandon Stark of Winterfell. He sat on the edge of the table, the old wood creaking under his weight. He swung his dangling leg, leaning forward to rest his forearm on his thigh. A smile traced his mouth. _How do you thank gods you doubt exist?_ But Jaime’s thoughts snagged on the certainty of blue eyes and warm hands, bucked teeth and small breasts, scowls and scars and honor and vows and his smile died beneath his beard. Jaime stood and paced the room, uncertain what to do in the silence. He thought of a bath but that only returned to mind the searing sight of a naked Brienne, her enormous body glistening and golden in the light from the torches, her taut muscles limned in the flames as his eyes roved over her peaked nipples and flat stomach and finally settled on the dripping thatch of hair between the flexed muscles of her thick thighs. _What would I give to…_    Jaime felt his cock harden, his breath quicken even as he cut off the words. He rushed to the window and fixed his eyes on the red tears of the Heart Tree. When he felt himself soften, he turned from the window and walked to the chest. He knelt and saw the lock unfastened. The lid proved heavier than he thought as his arm and shoulder nearly buckled to push it open.

_I will be the most useless sworn sword in the history of the realm if I do not improve my strength quickly._

Sweat beaded across his brow. He shrugged away the burning in his left shoulder. Jaime looked down in the welling darkness of the deep chest. He reached his hand inside, felt the coolness of the leather beneath his fingers. Jaime gazed at the letters, tracing them, linking them together, slowly in his mind then said them slowly from his mouth.

“The Har, Harrow, row, ing, Harrowing Lay of Ser Antonelle the Ele, El, Elegant and other Tales for Chil, Children.” Joy burst like a light through his smile. “My favorite tale.” Jaime clutched the book to his chest as he rose from his knees. He removed Lion’s Heart from his side and sat at the ironwood table. He began to read aloud. Jaime stammered over the words, struggled mightily to reverse the letters reversing on the page but he lost himself in the effort of forgetting wet flesh and the poison of a broken promise. As the candles burned low, a servant came to tell him of supper served in the Great Hall.

“Does my prince request my presence?” Jaime asked.

“Not tonight, Ser Jaime, but you may join Prince Brandon in the Great Hall or sup here in your room.”

Jaime turned away from the servant, leaned back in his chair. Scowling mouths, narrowed eyes, murmured hisses of “Kingslayer” played out before him. Jaime’s nostrils flared at the sight of wide, blue eyes turning away from his gaze to study closely the food on her plate. Jaime’s eyes skimmed over the words on the open page.

His prince gave him his leave. Jaime would take Brandon’s generous offer, for there would be time to face them all.

To face even himself.

But not tonight.

Jaime turned to the servant. “Please tell my prince I shall sup here, in my room.” His eyes flicked to the shortening candles. “Though I shall need more light.”

The servant gave him a deep bow. “As you wish.” When the man raised his head, Jaime gasped to see the long face of Arya Stark. The girl smiled.

“What devilry-,”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Is that all you can ever think to say? And if you wish food brought to your rooms, it is better to come in my hands than in the talons of the eagles.”

Jaime swallowed. “Forgive me, Lady, Princess Arya. It is just-,”

“ _Arya_ ,” she broke in. “Only Arya to my friends.”

Jaime began to speak, his mind gripped by the last word she spoke. He closed his mouth in silence.

“It is true,” she said, through his hesitation. “I am on your side, Ser Jaime, even if you are not yet on mine.”

His eyes narrowed and he found his voice, then. “That is where _you_ are mistaken, Prin-, Arya. I gave my vow at the sacred Heart Tree. I swore to defend the wolves against all enemies. And my vows were not said for only Prince Brandon. I swore my vows to protect _all_ of you.”

She nodded. “Good. For you were right about the eagles. There is treachery afoot though he hides it well. I feel it will be revealed in time, to our peril.”

Jaime’s voice rose in exasperation. “Why does Princess Sansa trust him so dearly? Can she not see him slithering around her throat, hissing in her ears?”

Arya shrugged then sighed. “Joffrey damaged her, Ser Jaime, I fear almost beyond healing. He lied on her beloved Lady and her direwolf companion lost her beautiful head to Joff’s lies. He tortured my sister, beat any joy out of her, humiliated her at every turn in King’s Landing before the court. When she was sure to die for her tormentor’s poisoning, it was Littlefinger who spirited her away to the safety of the Vale. And when he let her leave with Lady Brienne, brought his soldiers to help defeat the Boltons, Sansa was assured of his loyalty where she had none since going south. For all this, she believes she can and _must_ trust him.”

 _So the sin of bearing Joffrey must be paid with the folly of trusting Little Finger?_ Jaime shook his head, a smile twisting up from his beard. “Littlefinger has never helped another soul without expecting payment, with _extreme_ interest. And whatever he wants now will surely beggar the _world_ in return.”

Arya’s gray eyes flickered between heat and cold, chilling Jaime as he looked at the young woman. “Truly. So it is our job to uncover his plot before he fills Sansa’s heart with any more of his poisonous whispers. I shall return with your supper, Ser Jaime.”

When she returned, the aroma of roasted venison filling his room, she stopped his hand before he could lift the silver dome covering his plate.

“You cannot help us uncover his schemes if you hide in your room, Ser Jaime.”

He scowled and shook off her hand. “I am not hiding-,”

“You _are_ ,” she answered, her hand covering his once more. “And we need your eyes to see more than the four corners of your chambers.”

Jaime narrowed his gaze at the girl. “Who is this _we_ , Arya Stark.”

She squeezed his hand. “ _Our_ king.” He snorted. She scowled at his retort. “You pledged fealty to the wolves, Ser Jaime-,”

“To the _Starks_ ,” he corrected. He rolled his eyes at her wide-eyed scorn. “Yes, yes even to the bastard pretending he is one of you though he will never be _my_ king. So whom besides _your_ king needs my shrewd eyes?”

Her jaw jumped beneath the grim line of her mouth. “Truly, ser? But how can you call me ‘Princess’ or Bran ‘Prince’ if Jon is not king?” Jaime scowled at her reasoning and said nothing. “Fine, Ser Jaime. Name my brother as anything but your king in that japing, Lannister drawl that so grates.  But when the White Walkers come to our gates, your pettiness will not avenge Wease-,”

“Don’t,” he warned, his voice a soft hiss.

She squeezed his hand again. “The Wolves need you. Even the white one you mock. You have gifts that are needed, blessings you must share. And _she_ needs you. She stands torn between her lady and what she knows to be true of the man calling himself her ‘dearest’ friend.”

“Did she say this to you?” His voice slipped to a whisper. “Did she say she needed… _me_?”

Arya regarded Jaime in weighing silence. Jaime marveled at the clear, direct gaze of her gray eyes. She took her hand from his and folded her arms, tilting her head to the closed door. “Her room is at the other end of the hall, Ser Jaime. What are a few more steps on this long journey from King’s Landing? Summon the courage to visit this very evening and ask her of her needs yourself.”

He bit his lip, stopped when he saw Arya’s smile. Jaime scowled and launched to his feet, straightening his spine to his full height. “You know nothing of me or my-.” Jaime stopped. He sat again and flipped the book closed, pushing it across the broad table. Jaime felt the heat cooling in his chest and cheeks. He lifted the cover from his tray and stared at the meal before him. Venison rested in thick, savory gravy pooled over potatoes and carrots and onions. Bread, as always, waited for him beside a blunt knife and golden pats of butter. Three lemon cakes lay stacked on top of each other. Powdered sugar dusted over the tops of the bars like drifts of snow.  Jaime regarded his meal and would not meet the gray eyes smiling down on him. “Mind your insolent tongue, Arya Stark. I may serve the Wolves but I am still a lion.”

Arya snorted a giggle as she turned and headed for the door. “And yet,” she threw over her shoulder, “the mighty lion trembles before the most artless maid in all the realms. Fear cuts deeper than swords, Ser Jaime.” The door slammed before Jaime could roar an answer. He heard her laughter tinkling down the hall.

Some time later, a soft knock lifted his eyes from Ser Antonelle’s duel with Brodrick Boarsbane the Black Hearted Man. His chest tightened and his voice wavered when he answered, “Enter.”

It was two servants come to remove his tray and bring hot water and soap for washing.  Disappointment splashed cold as ice through Jaime's chest.  One girl placed the hot water, towels and soap near the fireplace as she banked the flames and added more logs. The young girls were quick and efficient in their duties. Before he could wonder if one of the young women was Arya Stark, they were gone, the tray clinking in the crook of a girl’s arms as she pulled the door shut with her foot. Jaime stared at the closed door. He turned back to his book, his index finger tracing beneath a word when he heard feet stomping from the hall.

Jaime knew those foot falls. And they came closer to his room.

Jaime was out of his seat, his hand on the door handle before he could think.

The pound of boots stopped, right outside his door.

Jaime’s hand trembled, the brass doorknob cold and slick beneath his fingers. He braced himself for a knock. He braced himself to fling open the door and pull her inside to the warmth of the room and into his arms. Jaime tried to steady his breath. He thought he heard breathing beyond the thick door, just a plank of wood separating their breaths, their eyes.

Their hearts.

 _Seven hells with the knock_ , he thought, his fingers tensing on the handle. But they did not turn the cold metal. His fingers never pulled back the handle, opening wide the door.

The knock never came.

Jaime heard the boots stomping against the stone floors once more. Her retreat faded from his ears until he heard the whine of a door opened and felt the silence when it shut. He pressed his fore head to the door, ground his teeth, feeling his jaw burn and throb. Anger fired through him and Jaime whirled from the door. In two strides he hunched over the table, the book swept to the floor with a roar. Jaime gripped the corner of the table with his hand, panted through his rage, stopping his fingers from next snatching up his blade, hacking the chest to splinters with Lion’s Heart. His eyes fixed on his sword. He turned to the window and stood before the frosted glass once more. He wiped clear a pane and saw the tree, lit, it seemed, from within.

So this was it.

This new feeling churned acid through his stomach as he looked at the grimace of the carved face which must surely mirror his own.

This is what it felt like to ignore his impulses, think first of the consequences, put his honor before his heart.

His treacherous, greedy Lannister heart.

He knew what his heart could do, had _done_ , if he let it rule his life.

He nodded once at the tree before he turned to pick up the book and return it to the table. Unbidden, Cersei’s smirking face rose up, swirling a goblet of Arbor red in her long fingers.

_I will kill the whole bloody lot of them, until you and I are the only two people left in this world. I remember those words, sweet brother. Do you?_

He shook her away, though he felt her eyes on him, from somewhere, always mocking, always judging him as lacking when his will was not her own.

_Fuck you, Cersei. Every word you ever breathed to me proved a lie. I will never forgive you. Never._

He felt her smile cutting through him.

Jaime yanked his tunic over his head, throwing it to the floor. He stood before the fire and began to wash, scrubbing the sponge over his chest and under his armpits, the rough fabric scouring his skin. He would not let his heart overrule his honor, corrupt Brienne as he was once corrupted. He removed his breeches and kicked them into a corner. He would not infect her with his treason, his blinding lust. Water splashed when he tossed the sponge in the bucket, small puddles of firelight bright on the floor. Jaime padded across the room to the bed and slipped naked beneath the furs. The coolness of the sheets met his bare skin with a shock before his body warmed the brushed flannel. He stared at the beams in the ceiling.

_So this is the price for my life and restoring my honor._

He blinked away the tears.

_My heart._

Later that night, warmed almost to sweating underneath his furs, Jaime Lannister yanked back his coverings and trailed his hand along the hard planes of his stomach. He had stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, trying to chase down sleep. He thought of returning to the table to struggle over a few chapters of the tale or sit before the fire until drowsy but his hand strayed to his cock, already stiffened and waiting for his touch. He was warm, in a bed, free from fears of starving or freezing or dying---at least for this moment. _It has been so long,_ he thought as he made a loose fist and began to stroke up and down the length of his shaft. Jaime used the first drops of his pleasure to wet the purpling head of his cock before spitting in his hand, adding more. He closed his eyes, his pumping fist steady, a gasp escaping from his lips. From years of training, his mind jumped to Cersei, his swollen head wet and glistening as she sucked it in and out of her soft mouth.

Jaime’s cock died in his hand as his eyes flew open.

He slowed his breathing, closed his eyes again, trailing his hand along his body, cupping his balls, pinching and rubbing his nipples. This time when his hand found his cock, he thought of nothing, concentrating instead on the pleasure, the feeling building in his core as he stroked up and down the shaft, thrusting his hips with the rhythm.

Then his heart betrayed him.

Blue eyes stared into his own as she whispered his name, her large, warm hands sliding up and down his cock, over his throbbing head, stopping only to wet him with her mouth, sucking with her full lips before stroking his release from him once more.

Jaime finished in seconds. He fisted the sheet in his hand, felt his stomach tighten with each wave, spurting hot seed against his belly, his legs, the furs with a stifled roar.

His own words were used against him, again, as his breathing returned to normal, his eyes opened and his hand eased their grip on the sheets.

He had stared into her blue eyes then as he spoke. Her fingernails scrapped against his scalp, yanking back his head, her face above his close as if braced for a searing kiss. He remembered her warm breath, panting across his face. His eyes roved over her scowling mouth before they returned to her eyes and he said the words.

_We don’t get to choose who we love._

Jaime laughed though a quiet sob. When he dashed away his long tears after a short time, he used a corner of the sheet to clean the stickiness drying on his belly. The tension locked so long in his body softened with his release, stilled his mind. He closed his eyes.

Jaime rolled to his side and finally slept, a free man among the Wolves of Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life: it's happening, ya'll! I'll try not to let two weeks go between new chapters but...life happens.
> 
> It is known.


	11. The Doors of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Jaime Lannister hears tales of another time and other choices...

Jaime Lannister snapped open his eyes to gaze into the gray mist outside his window.

With a sigh, he turned from his side to his back. Jaime stared at the dark ironwood beams cutting across the high ceiling of his chamber. He listened to the sounds of the waking world beyond his door. Beyond his window lay the godswood of Winterfell, all quiet beneath the gnarled boughs of the ancient trees. But inside the warm halls of the Guest House, Jaime heard the creak of a door open and close, soft voices muffled by the thick door of his room. He counted the seconds when both boots and voices faded to silence as they whisked down the steps and into the yard.

Jaime heard a door close from the opposite end of the corridor.

He raised and swiveled his heard toward the sound, the stomping drawing closer and closer.

But this time, the boots did not stop at his door.

He lay still for a moment, his head lowering back to his pillow, imagining a light tap. But when he heard nothing, Jaime threw off the furs covering his naked body and swung his legs over the edge of the great bed. Jaime paused for a breath before he stood and padded to the basin for washing, grateful for the hot springs pumping through the walls and warming the floor and air of the room.

He had just finished fastening his breeches when he heard a knock. His heart beat its normal rhythm, his head turning toward the sound. Jaime straightened his tunic and knew whose cat-scratched knuckles rapped across his door.

“Ser Jaime?” called a firm voice.

“You may enter, Princess Arya.”

“ _Arya_ ,” she said, swinging open and closing the door. “You must call me simply ‘Arya’, as I said last night, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime sat on a stool by the low fire in the hearth. He tugged on his right boot before reaching for his left, unwilling to admit his gladness at seeing the girl. “Good morning, Simply Arya,” he drawled with a smile. “And what new aggravation have you planned-,”

“It would help if you put your left boot on first, Ser.”

He squinted at her, freezing his movements as he looked up. “ _Help_? Help with what, girl?”

She angled her head toward his hand. “You still live as a right handed man. It would serve you better to believe you prefer your left.”

“But I don’t. And I _am_ a right handed man.”

She smiled, a little twist, her glance grazing the stump resting on his thigh. “No, you are not. Not anymore.”

Jaime looked at the floor, all mirth gone when he raised his eyes. “Indeed. What do you want, Arya Stark?”

Arya blinked at his roughened tone. “I am sorry, Ser Jaime,” she stammered. “I only meant-,”

“To help, yes.” He stood and crossed the room to the long ironwood table and buckled Lion’s Heart around his slim waist. He held the belt steady with his stump. “Thank you for your sage advice, girl. Now tell me quickly. What do you want?”

Arya peered at Jaime closely. “Are you well, Ser Jaime? You seem on edge. How did you sleep?”

“With my eyes closed, of course. Now again, and for the third and final time, _what do you want?”_

Arya narrowed her eyes. “Your japes are horrendous, Ser.” Jaime lifted one broad shoulder in a shrug. Arya pursed her lips but continued. “Bran summons you to the Great Hall at once.”

Jaime swallowed, remembering the sound of large boots determined to warp the wooden floors with their stomping. “The Great Hall? Is Prince Brandon…alone?”

Arya smirked. “No. There are many in the Great Hall at this time of the morn, all breaking their fast.” Her smirk deepened. “Including Lady Brienne.” Arya turned and removed Jaime’s cloak from a peg. She held it out for Jaime to shrug inside the thick wool. “Come, Ser Jaime. And remember. Fear cuts deeper than swords.”

He scowled as he closed the door of his room, for once, with nothing for stinging retort.

They skipped down the broad steps of the Guest House and into the yard. Just beyond the door stood Ser Davos Seaworth and Jaime almost collided with smaller man.

“My apologies, Princess Arya, Ser Jaime,” the Stormlander said, ducking his plain head in a quick nod.   “I must speak closely with you, Ser.”

“Me?” answered Jaime.

“Yes, Ser Jaime.” Ser Davos leaned close, his bearded mouth almost touching Jaime’s ear. Jaime was glad for the noises of hammers on wood, iron singing in the practice yard and the shouts and sounds of a large keep to conceal The Hand’s words. “King Jon held quiet talks with Prince Brandon and the Princess here and took your advice to heart.” Davos leaned back with a hint of a smile. Jaime nodded and stared at the man.

“When?”

“Last night. Under the cover of darkness.”

 _Dark wings, dark words._ “Good. Only a shadow to watching eyes.”

“And naught but a _moving_ shadow for even the straightest arrow,” Arya put in.

Jaime turned to Ser Davos, his voice soft. “And was there mention of me?”

“Of course, Ser Jaime. King Jon thought it best not to hide that we hold you at Winterfell.”

“As a prisoner or hostage?”

“As Prince Brandon’s sworn sword.” Both men stared long at one another.

“She will not like that,” said Arya, darting eyes to Jaime. “The Kingslayer in allegiance to the Wolves?”

“No,” said Ser Davos, glancing at the girl, “but it is truth. And what we face is greater than the Dragon’s revenge.” The Hand turned to Jaime. ‘How do you think he will answer?”

Jaime pursed his lips and looked at the ground. He imagined for a moment Tyrion’s squat fingers smoothing across the parchment to better read the missive, his mismatched black and green eyes lingering on the words, ‘The King in the North’ before throwing back his over-large head in peals of laughter. But his brother would return to the truths in the plea soon after his japing died. Jaime looked at Davos, noting the clarity of the man’s gray eyes. “He is Tyrion so he answers with wisdom. But what this means for _us_ , only the gods truly know.”

Davos stared at Jaime. Then with a nod, a curt bow to Arya, he turned and left them at the Guest House door, his shoulders arched high in worry. Jaime broke his gaze from the Hand’s back and looked down at Arya Stark. She peered up at him, a smile lifting one corner of her mouth.

Jaime quirked an eyebrow at the girl. “Does something amuse you, Simply Arya?”

“Yes,” she answered with a full-blown smile. She started to walk and Jaime fell in step with her quick feet.

“Well, do you care to tell, girl?”

Arya laughed as they passed many men and some women repairing the walls and battlements of Winterfell. Defeating the Boltons did great damage and buckets of mortar and cranes laden with stone moved up and down the scaffolds. Most folk stopped in the middle of their efforts to dip a sharp bow or curtsey to the princess of the north. Jaime noticed many soldiers leaning on spears and speaking in clusters, the blue Eagle of the Ayrie shining on their breasts. Arya nodded in return to those calling her name but slanted her gray eyes to the tall man beside her. “If you cannot guess why I smile, Ser, then I cannot tell.” She stopped at the arched doors to the Great Hall. “Until this evening, Ser Jaime.” She turned to leave. Jaime stood before the door, the back of his head the same height as a carved direwolf behind him. The ironwood fangs of the beast were worn to nubs by weather and time.

“You will not break your fast now, girl?”

“I ate before coming to you. But since you are one of _us_ now, Ser Jaime, I am certain to see you at supper tonight.”

“ _Us_?” he started. “I never said-,”

“You _did_ ,” she called back over the noise. “To Ser Davos.” Jaime scowled and watched the girl walk through the bustling keep to the smithy across the wide yard. The same man who held her hand at the execution broke off his hammering on a shield to smile in greeting. Jaime sharpened his gaze on the boy. The young man, all rippling bare arms and the very likeness of Robert Baratheon with two dashes of Renly, flicked a shock of black hair from his blue eyes. He lit up like the fires blazing behind him as he smiled and talked with Arya. Jaime watched them for a moment. He saw Arya soften and the handsome youth’s smile grow wider and wider through the black soot streaking his cheeks. He turned his eyes to Jaime and gave the watching man a quick bow, dropping his smile. Arya followed the boy’s gaze. She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Your business is therein, not gawking in the yard! Prince Brandon awaits, Ser Jaime!”

“ _Arya_!” the boy hissed. “I mean, milady! That’s Ser Jaime Lannister, milady!” The young man and a few others at least looked embarrassed by Arya’s impression of a fishwife in Fleabottom.

Jaime shook his head as the young man and Arya began to argue. _I must inquire after the boy_ … _he must be one of Robert’s gets, he must_ … _he stands the very image of him so long ago at the Trident_ … Jaime noted the affection between the two youths, even as they argued _. There was a time one such as him, a lowly blacksmith, would never be permitted to look a lady in the eye, much less a princess and much less argue with her…but with war, comes new possibilities…_ Jaime smiled _. And what a princess she is…was there ever a princess like her in all the realms?_ He shook his head again in answer.

Arya held up a small hand to the boy, stopping the flow of his hot words. She turned to Jaime and yelled across the yard, “Fear cuts deeper than swords, Ser Jaime!”

The boy looked at Jaime then down at Arya. When she lowered her hand, they began to argue once more, leaning closer, almost touching. _Yes,_ Jaime thought. _I must needs inquire after the boy…_

Jaime turned toward the door, leaving Arya Stark to her flirtation. He paused to gather a deep breath then pressed his hand on the snarling direwolf and walked through the high arches into the Great Hall.

At the sight of him, all words slammed to a stop on their last sound. Necks craned and twisted toward the Kingslayer as he approached the raised dais, forks and knives forgotten.

Brienne’s cutlery clattered heavy against her plate.

In a glance, Jaime saw crimson flushing through Brienne’s face. Beside her, Sansa Stark gripped a table knife. Jaime saw Brienne’s large fingers cover the fine bones and white knuckles of her lady’s hand--- and the glinting weapon clamped in Sansa’s fist. Jaime almost laughed at the memory of him doing the same so long ago, Brienne’s broad hand lying still beneath his own. He remembered Roose Bolton’s strange, dead eyes fixed on their clasped hands, his thin lips tilted in a smirk. But now, Jaime bit his lip as he approached the raised platform, thought better of his smile. If he laughed now, so soon after escaping what many felt his justice, nothing---not even the mighty hand of Brienne of Tarth---could stop Sansa’s blade jutting from the center of his chest. He tore his gaze from the wench’s hand and into the smiling eyes of Brandon Star. The boy sat to the left of his murderous sister.

_And where is your pet snake this morning, Sansa Stark, hmm? Breaking his fast on live rats in his chambers?_

Jaime gave Brandon Stark and the highly raised nobles his deepest, most courtly bow. “Good day, my Prince. Princess Sansa.” He cleared his throat, to loosen the sudden tightening. “Lady Brienne.”

Brandon beamed at Jaime. The women remained silent. “Good day, Ser Jaime,” piped Brandon Stark. “I pray you slept well?”

What began as a smile died in Jaime’s beard at Brandon’s question. Memories of his breathless release flashed hot across his face and with a clench of his jaw, Jaime willed his eyes not to drift to the hunched woman staring into her porridge.

Jaime cleared his throat once more. “I slept well, Prince Brandon,” he stammered. _After a time…_

“Good,” Bran answered. “Then when you have finished breaking your fast, please come to me in the Glass House.” Bran smiled at Jaime’s puzzled look. “I forget you are southron, Ser. It is where we grow our vegetables and medicinal plants in the cold winters of the north. Anyone can show you to the House. Perhaps Lady Brienne-,”

Brienne shot up from her chair as if sitting on a dagger’s point. “Forgive me, Prince Brandon, but I am needed at the archery butts.” Her eyes slid from her plate to dash a look at Jaime before staring at the table once more. “ _Nusu_ Nyo insists I must needs improve my technique.” She swallowed. “She fashions for me a longbow.”

Bran nodded, his brow a deep furrow, before turning once more to Jaime with a frown.

“By your leave, Princess Sansa?” Brienne spoke. Her voice lowered almost to a whisper. Sansa’s narrowed gaze never left Jaime but she gave the hulking woman a tight nod. At the slightest dip of Sansa’s head, Brienne stomped from the dais, down the length of the hall and past the great arches in what seemed three long strides.

Jaime turned back to the worry in Bran’s glance and the rosy sneer of Princess Sansa. He finally allowed a smile. “Well,” he drawled to his young lord, “that leaves _one_ less person in this room so unhappy to see me.” Jaime looked under the table at Bran’s boots resting on a footstool. “And where is your wolf, my prince?”

“Out hunting with his brothers.”

“Then may their hunt bear fruit.” He bowed once more to Brandon and Sansa Stark then sat the bench at a long table. He tucked into the food that quietly appeared while he stood threatened and ignored. Those sitting closest to Jaime Lannister scraped back the benches from the tables. They gave him sullen, cutting glances as they left the Great Hall, whispering and murmuring of the Kingslayer. Others followed, leaving the Kingslayer to break his fast alone in the wide room.   Jaime watched Hodor lift Brandon into his arms and down the steps. Jaime bit into a slice of toasted bread and watched Sansa Stark dab the corners of her mouth in dainty taps. Then she stood from her high-backed seat, her delicate shoulders stiff and straight as she looked down her slender nose. Her mouth twisted and she clenched her hands into tight fists. Jaime looked up into blue eyes edged with ice.

 _Here she stands, willing my death in her gaze._ Jaime blinked. _Sansa Stark_. _I thought you my last chance at honor._ Sansa stared for a moment then turned away to stalk down the stairs, her steps slow, small, the muscles of her smooth jaw pulsing beneath her grinding teeth. Jaime listened to the soft scuffing of her boots until the sound faded from his hearing.   Bacon crunched salty and warm in Jaime’s mouth as he slid his drink from right to left with his stump. He paused then reached his left hand for his cup of watered ale, willing himself to believe it always felt normal.

He took a long swallow. Jaime placed the cup down near his hand and picked up his fork. He scooped up some eggs on the tines and a few yellow chunks fell back to his plate.

He chewed and drank and wondered how long he could outlast the open wounds of Sansa Stark--- and the serpent that would never let them heal.

 

 

Warmth flowed over Jaime like the thick air of a steaming bath.

With quick, deft fingers he removed his cloak and hung it on a peg next to three others, two of them large enough to cover four men grown. He heard full-throated yet gentle laughter roll from the back of the glass structure and knew the sound came from Samwell Tarly.

Jaime’s eyes lifted in wonder at Winterfell’s Glass House. The place was awash in white, hazy light coming through the large glass panes. The smell of earth hung heavy as the warm air pressing against his skin and filling his nose and lungs.   It was quiet, save for his boots striking the stone floor and the sound of water trickling somewhere beyond sight.

“Ah, Ser Jaime,” said Brandon Stark. “You are here.” Maester Tarly turned to him with a wide smile.   Hodor grinned at Jaime from a low bench along the glass wall of the room.

Jaime bowed and smiled at the younger men as he crossed the threshold into the smaller room. Within a step, the air felt cooler, almost chill, yet a warm breeze feathered over the nape of Jaime’s neck. Samwell Tarly and Brandon Stark sat in high-backed chairs around a deep ironwood trough.   Between them danced small, bright yellow flowers. The flowers grew on pale green stalks from the dark earth in the broad trench of the dark wood. The cooled air was scented with a sharp, peppery spice, not unlike cinnamon or fennel, yet sparkled with the fresh, green smell of a broken stem or hewn grass. As he drew nearer to the prince and maester, the scent grew stronger and an easing of his shoulders, his jaw, his brow seemed to flow over Jaime’s tight muscles. He looked closely at the flowers. They were not a plain, matte yellow, like the bright but flat color of a daffodil or daisy.

These blooms shone and shimmered, as if dusted in gold powder.

Jaime felt a sudden urge to bury his face between the seven golden petals bursting from the dark center of each plant.

Maester Tarly gazed up at Jaime with a knowing smile. “ _Ojuri Yami_ , Ser Jaime,” the man said, unfurling smoothly the strange words from his tongue. “Or in the Common Speech, _Sunstar_. A few pearly seeds brought first to Oldtown then Winterfell in a single pouch with _Nusu_ Nyo. They grow in the high, crisp mountains of the Summer Isles.” He spread his fat hands over the green and gold flowers. “Those three seeds yielded all of this splendor.”

Jaime reached out his long pointer finger to graze across an iridescent petal. It felt soft beneath his finger, cool and supple with life. He rubbed his finger against the grooves in his thumb. To his wonder, the pads of his fingers went uncovered in gold flecks. Jaime looked into the wide, expectant face of Maester Tarly.

“How did Nu, Nusu-,”

“ _Nusu Zami_ , really,” finished the maester. “It is an honorific, like maester, but for women, women of the Moon. It means ‘Half Moon,” meaning _Nusu_ Nyo has not yet come into the fullness of her learning, though, I suspect, it won’t be long until she does.”

“How did _Nusu Zami_ -,”

“Just _Nusu_ Nyo will suffice.”

Jaime walked along the length of the trough, gazing at the yellow flowers as he spoke. “How did _Nusu_ Nyo come to Winterfell, Maester Tarly?”

“We met while I studied at Oldtown, Ser Jaime. She was sent to the Citadel by the _Zami Omu_ Nandi or the ‘Full Moon’ of her temple to study and learn all she could of the Others. She was there a few years before my arrival, claiming _Zami Omu_ saw a great battle in the bloody dust of the Red Comet. She saw a new king rising in the frozen north and that he would have need of the Smiling Moon’s light.”

“The half moon,” reasoned Jaime.

Maester Tarly grinned. “That is correct, Ser. Right before the battle for Winterfell, _Nusu_ Nyo told me of Jon’s victory.” The jolly maester’s smile faded to worry. “In a dream, she saw the White Wolf flying over Winterfell, Jon standing once more on the battlements. But she also saw the fall of the Wall and of the realms of men. So when I came to Winterfell to act as maester, she called it a sign and joined Gilly and me.”

Jaime raised his eyebrows as he rounded the trough and stood closer to the young men. “An astonishing tale, Maester Tarly. The archmaesters granted her admission to the secret knowledge of the Citadel? How did she manage that great feat?”

Samwell Tarly blinked. “She suffered their abuse and mockery and refused to give up her mission, Ser Jaime.” The large man swallowed. “Much like her close friend, Lady Brienne.”

Jaime thought of the wench, so stubborn and stout, like a great, blue-eyed ox. He could not stop his lips quirking into a smile. “ _Indeed_. So why did _Nusu_ Nyo bring three seeds all the way to Westeros and Winterfell, Maester Tarly?” He eyed the glimmering blossoms. “Not merely for beautification, yes?”

Brandon answered, his mouth a tight line. “Before setting sail, she was told to bring them, in a dream. She told _Zami Omu_ Nandi and she pressed three seeds into her hand. Though not even the wisest of wise women knew why.”

Maester Tarly turned to Jaime. “We planted those seeds upon our arrival, many months ago, Ser Jaime. Under _Nusu_ Nyo’s instruction, we created the conditions needed for the seeds to flower. Nothing happened. No green shoots. No tight buds. Nothing, just this trough filled with dark loam. It is though the seeds lay deep inside the earth, waiting.” A smile returned to the maester’s face. “We don’t know much about why these flowers important, Ser Jaime. But we _do_ know those three seeds began to sprout and bloom on the very day you appeared, Ser.” Maester Tarly nodded his head at Jaime’s wide eyes. “Oh, yes. One of the _many_ strange wonders come lately to Winterfell.”

 

 

“Here is fine, Hodor.”

“Hodor,” the giant answered, laying Brandon, like a babe, on the gentle slope climbing to the foot of the Heart Tree. Bran lay on his stomach for a moment, his nose pressed into the earth. He drew deep breaths from his chest.

Then the boy began to pull himself forward, gripping clumps of grass in his hands as he heaved his way to the trunk of the great tree.

His legs trailed behind him, twisting and falling to one side then the other. Jaime swallowed and blinked away tears as he stared at the useless legs. He reached forward to help Brandon Stark, guilt eating a Nusu hole through his heart.

“No, Ser Jaime,” Bran panted. “Please. Don’t. _Nusu_ Nyo and Maester Tarly said I must make my arms and shoulders stronger and this, the best way.” He pulled himself forward once more, pushing out a gust of air. Jaime nodded as he watched the boy inch forward to the base of the tree then wrapped his arms around the white trunk. Brandon gave one great pull on the thick trunk before turning over, his huffing breaths making white clouds in the cold air. Then he sat up and began rolling himself up the tree to rest his back against the trunk. Sweat beaded across his brow and he smiled up at Jaime as his breath slowed, returned to normal. To Brandon’s left, the carved face of the Heart Tree peered over the boy’s shoulder.

Off in the distance, Jaime heard a splash followed by a sigh of “Hodor.”

His hand flew to Lion’s Heart as he whipped narrowed eyes to Brandon Stark. Bran giggled. “There is no danger, Ser Jaime. There steams a hot spring deeper in the wood. It is Hodor’s favorite place to bathe.” Jaime relaxed his hand. “Please, Ser,” Brandon said, gesturing to the ground. “Sit. For my tale is long.” The boy swallowed, his gaze slipping off for a moment. “And darker than a raven’s eye.” Jaime looked at Bran. He felt his heart beat faster, fearing what the boy would say. Bran nodded as Jaime lowered to the grass. Their eyes locked once more. “Yes, there is much to fear, Ser Jaime. But you are here. I am here. Lady Brienne dwells here. Take comfort in knowing all that live at Winterfell or come to our gates are meant to be here. Yes, even Lord Baelish must play his part. So take courage in knowing we are placed for a purpose, however dimly we may see why.”

Jaime nodded and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he looked at Brandon Stark. “My father declared the only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid.”

A smile flashed across Bran’s face, his eyes wide. “As did once mine lord father speak to me!” His smile softened and began to fade. “So long ago it seems. But I held those words close to my heart many a time on my long journeys.” He leaned forward. “Yesterday, over our meal in the kitchens, I spoke of my time at Winterfell, when my lady mother went south to discover why someone wanted me killed.” Jaime nodded and at the look on his face, Bran patted the man’s stump. “I needed my lord father’s words, then. Soon, King Joffrey named my lord father a traitor. Robb called our banners and followed Mother, leaving me the Stark at Winterfell.” Jaime nodded again. “I watched him leave, heartsick I could not stand with him and heard Father’s words again. Then Theon Greyjoy came with his bold treachery and captured Winterfell.”

“Aye,” said Jaime. “You spoke of hiding in the crypts with your brother and wolves, escaping north when you could.”

“Aye and we would have perished without aid from our friends Meera and Jojen Reed and the wilding woman, Osha.” Bran smiled. “And of course, Hodor.”

“Hodor?” a voice called.

“Not yet, my friend,” Bran returned.

“Hodor,” he answered with another splash.

“Yes, we escaped north, Ser Jaime. But not to the Wall, not to Jon.” Bran bit his lower lip then set his mouth in a grim line. “I went north because I was called by a three-eyed raven. I went north to learn how to fly.”

Jaime squinted at the boy. “A _three-eyed_ raven? A three-eyed raven taught you to… _fly_?”

“Yes. But without wings. I learned to fly through the mind of beast and man.” He swallowed. “I learned to fly through the doors of time.”

Jaime stared at the boy, green eyes narrowed then wide then narrowed again. “The doors of… _time_ , Prince Bran?”

“Aye,” Bran answered. “The doors of time. A mere slipping through one door and coming out to another place, another time. I have passed the threshold of one door only to walk in the moment of a different time. I saw my father born through one open door but live a long life, here at Winterfell, when I closed another.”

Jaime could not take his eyes off the boy. “What do you _mean_ , Prince Brandon?”

Bran shook his head. “I do not always know myself, Ser Jaime. It is difficult to scry

through those doors truth from mere possibility. But it seems time is naught but choices. I have seen you _not_ lay with your sister, _not_ father three children with her, _not_ become a Kingsguard, _not_ kill the Mad King. Yet, here you are, with us, at Winterfell, _precisely_ because those things, in this time, came to pass.”

“Then how do you discern truth from lies?”

Bran looked startled. “Oh, what comes to pass are not _lies_ , Ser Jaime, beyond those doors, not in the way you mean. Those outcomes are very real and based on choices made in whatever time I glimpse.” Jaime stared at him. Brandon smiled. “But we are real, in a fashion, right now, beneath the Heart Tree.”

“Truly?”

“Of course. I have proof right here.” He looked down at this lap then up at Jaime with a dazzling smile. “My legs, Ser Jaime. You gave a great gift in preparation for my lessons. It is easy to get lost behind those doors. But these legs are my anchor. They hold me, pin me within the boundaries of _our_ time. When I fly through any other door, my legs, whole.”

Understanding lit Jaime’s face. “You learned to fly outside of time.”

The boy nodded. “Though, even now, there are things I have seen that I dare not speak. One word, one name may bring about victory or disaster. Yet, I have not seen all there is to see. My eyes are still the eyes of men.” Bran gazed off into the woods, leaning back against the Heart Tree. “And some doors remain locked.”

Jaime cast his eyes about, revolving the boy’s words through his spinning mind. Finally, he looked at Brandon Stark. “I do not know what to… _say_ , my Prince. What a harrowing tale you speak.”

Bran gave a snort of laughter. “Indeed. But say only you will do what you _must_ in your choices, when _your_ time comes, as you have always done. And our time is always, _now,_ Ser Jaime _._ ”

“What I have always done?” Jaime shook his head. “No, Prince Brandon. My _reasons_ for doing as I have always done-,”

“Are my anchor.” Bran thumped his legs. “And now your reasons are your _honor_.”

“My _honor_?” Jaime barked a laugh. “I lost what honor I possessed for love.”

“And now it returns for the same reason.”

Jaime’s lips curved to a scowl. “No, my Prince. Yesterday, I gave away mine own heart at this tree.”

Bran started to speak but only smiled, a soft lift of his mouth. He watched Jaime through his blue Tully eyes before saying, “Your heart is ever your anchor, Ser Jaime. And it is more golden, more glorious than even you can imagine. And it too big to leave behind at Winterfell.”

Jaime stared at the pale boy with his mother’s eyes. “There is not a heart living larger than your own, Prince Brandon. We could not fill the world with the beating of its song.”

The boy laughed then, startling another “Hodor” from somewhere in the godswood. “Not yet, my giant friend, not yet!” Bran said, through his laughter. He turned to Jaime with a smaller boy’s smile. “Let us not over-praise our hearts just yet, Ser Jaime. Every heart shall be tried and tested in time.” Bran’s smile vanished as the warm sun behind a cloud. “For I have seen the Cold One. As surely as you sit before me, his cold, blue eyes on mine.” Jaime thought of Weasel, her dead eyes a bright blue, filled with burning ice and hate. He turned to Bran. “Did you see him through a door?”

Brandon thought a long moment, his gaze slipping off to something behind Jaime’s head. The boy swallowed then turned to look at the stolid face carved over his left shoulder.

“Prince Brandon?” Jaime said.

Bran sighed. “Forgive me, Ser Jaime. I struggle to say what I have seen for fear of the consequences. But it feels… _right_ …to tell you now. I glimpsed the Cold One in both dream _and_ through time. And this makes it even more difficult to divine what I see. Maester Tarly offers aid, as well as _Nusu_ Nyo.” He bit his bottom lip, his brow wrinkled in worry. “But neither has the green sight.”

“The green sight?”

Bran nodded. “The green sight,” he repeated. “A gift from the old gods and the Children of the Forest to my friend Jojen, Meera’s brother.”

Jaime tilted his head in thought. “Jojeen and Meera Reed are kin to Howland Reed, yes?”

“Yes. They are his children.”

“And where is Jojen now, Prince Brandon? At the Neck?”

Bran’s dropped his gaze to his legs, his eyes filling with tears. “Jojen is gone, Ser Jaime. He died protecting me from the Others. I miss him. Everyday.” He sniffed. “But not more than sweet Meera.”

Jaime heard the worry and sadness in Bran’s soft words and felt his own heart clench deep in his chest. He reached out his fingers to grasp Bran’s chin and directed the boy’s unfocused eyes to his face.   “Remember our lord father’s words, Prince Brandon. And remember your own. You have come home for a _purpose_. And there is still much wisdom in this place, if you only open the right door.” The boy smiled then. Jaime dropped his hand to squeeze Bran’s arm. “We must not despair. Despair is a great trick of the enemy, one costing him nothing but gaining him everything. Do not despair, my Prince.”

Bran relaxed his brow. His eyes sharpened their gaze and he nodded at Jaime’s words. When the boy seemed to return to the godswood, Jaime said, “Speak more of your dream and the door.”

Bran swallowed, as if a thick lump lodged in this throat. “In my dream, he found me. Here. At the Heart Tree of Winterfell. His eyes found mine and I felt…I felt my mind slipping beyond my control. I tried to fight him, to stop him, to put up blocks and barricades and wards but,” he paused to swallow, “this only made him _stronger_ , as if he feasted on my strength. He grew stronger as I grew weaker. I felt the strength in him, Ser Jaime.” The boy’s eyes seemed unfocused once more. “He grew strong enough to rip the world a part, like a septa ripping a seam. I felt him taking over my thoughts. They became dark. Cold. Filled with a thirst for the warm blood of men. I felt myself slipping under him, slipping under the ice of his darkness.” Jaime did not realize how close he leaned forward to better hear Brandon’s words until the boy turned his blue, brimming eyes to him and smiled. “But then I saw _you_ , Ser Jaime. Standing and fighting the darkness with Lady Brienne. Your twin swords bright with silver flame, as if made from moonlight and sunfire, slicing through the cold, the dark, dancing, driving back the shadows.” He smiled at the memory, his eyes alive as he held Jaime captive with his tale. “You danced inside a circle of _light_ , Ser Jaime. Right here. Where we now sit.” Brandon looked at the grass then lifted his eyes to Jaime Lannister. “You danced inside a circle of light. Together.”

 _Together…_ Jaime blinked for a moment, taking in Bran’s words. “And what of the door,” he said at last. “What did you see through the door?”

Bran pursed his lips, his face growing paler. “I saw the army of the dead marching for the Wall. I saw the Wall crumble, the sound like the roaring fires that swallowed Valyria. A thousand mile mist rose from the ruin like the Smoking Sea. All that once stood between the Cold One and the realms of men for a thousand years, fallen, like my old castles made of blocks. I saw darkness flowing across the earth like ink spilled across parchment, from the shores of Westeros across the Narrow Sea, flowing, the darkness, from Essos to Yi Ti, to the Summer Isles and beyond. Men and women, enslaved and butchered like cattle for meat. Babes born and devoured in darkness. The sun, never to rise on the realms of men. I have tried to open the door, to learn how we must defeat our enemy. But that door will not open again.”

“And your _legs_?” Jaime whispered. “What of your legs when you had this… _vision_?”

“Whole. But, nonetheless, I knew we must leave. It felt too… _real_. And now, _Nusu_ Nyo and even Arya speak of the fallen Wall and your dance in the darkness. But the Three-Eyed Raven cawed out a warning. He warned we would lose before we won. And victory coming only with the sword of my fathers and only if in the hands of completion.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes at Brandon Stark. “ _Completion_? What do you mean?”

He smiled. “Man and woman. Honor and the long fall from grace.   Evil and redemption. Breaking and reconciliation. Wholeness. The perfect circle of knighthood.” Bran’s smile deepened. “The perfect completion.”

 _A circle of light…Together_ … Jaime nodded and looked away from Bran’s piercing glance and the boy’s smile. “Then we will do our duty and draw our swords as one, together, when the time comes. I trust Lady Brienne will agree.”

“Yes, she does. We have spoken of the dream and what it may mean. But there is only one power holding the completion together, Ser Jaime.” Jaime flicked his tongue over his dry lips, knowing the word even before Bran spoke. “Love. Only love can hold the center. And it is the greatest power we have to defeat them.”

Jaime shook his head. “No, there must be another-,”

“There _is_ no other-,”

“I respect her a great deal-,”

“This is greater than _you_ or _her_ or your _respect_ , Ser Jaime, this is _lo_ -,”

“ **NO, PRINCE BRANDON!** ” Jaime roared, shooting to his feet. Man and boy stared at each other with wide eyes.

“Hodor?” Hodor peeked around a tree, fully dressed, his voice trembling.

Brandon shook his head. He never took his hardened gaze from Jaime. Hodor ducked behind the trunk of the great oak.

“Forgive me, my Prince. _Please_. Forgive me.” Jaime sank to his knees. “I would, _will_ , do anything for you, boy,” he said, this time his voice gentled. “ _Anything_. But you _promised_ to ask no service of me that might bring dishonor. So not for you, a prince sweeter than even Rhaegar Targaryen, would I break my vows to the old gods, spoken before this very tree. I _will_ live out the rest of my days with honor, Brandon Stark.   For I proved I cannot hold both honor _and_ love.”

“Ser Jaime-,”

“No, my Prince. _No._ This is the one thing I _cannot_ give you. Nor her. My-,” he paused to look away. “…belongs to the gods.” Jaime brought his eyes back to Brandon. When Bran relented with a curt nod, Jaime sighed and bowed. “Thank you. I do not wish this a rift between us, my Prince.”

“Ser Jaime, I still believe you fool-,”

“Only a _fool_ is blind to the man in the mirrored glass. I almost destroyed the realm with my desire and I will not risk our futures again for my… _heart_. I know you do not understand, Prince Bran. But this is the best path I see to move forward. I _must_ be the knight I was meant to be, in whatever time left. When my life spent, I wish to close my eyes with honor-,”

“What of _love_?”

“And dignity.”

Bran shook his head and said nothing.

Jaime needed to move his mind from thoughts of the wench. In the silence stretching between them, he thought over Bran’s tale and remembered his morning’s meeting with Ser Davos, understood better the urgency of Jon’s raven to King’s Landing and the Dragon Queen’s Hand, the nonstop hammering and bustle of the yard. “Now if what you glimpsed or dreamed is true,” he said, tilting his head, “the Wall _will_ fall and Winterfell sits as the bulwark between eternal darkness and the realms of men. Yes?”

“Yes.” Bran still wore a sullen face but nodded at Jaime’s question. “It is only a matter of time before this comes to pass.”

“A matter of time or a matter of choice, my Prince?”

Bran smiled. “Both, of course. And in our time and choices, we must needs prepare.”

Jaime Lannister remembered his weakness at lifting the ironwood lid of the trunk in his room. His arm and shoulder still ached from the exercise. He admired Brandon Stark’s determination to pull himself, inch by gasping inch along the wet ground, to sit at the foot of the Heart Tree.

Jaime stood from his knees, his hand gripping the hilt of Lion’s Heart. He nodded at Brandon. “Yes, my Prince.” His memory flew to the old knight, his white hair shining in the summer sun as he attacked to victory in the practice yard. “And I choose to be ready as never before.”

He bowed once more and promised to visit the Great Hall for the evening meal. Then Jaime Lannister left Brandon Stark gazing out over the godswood, knowing the quiet boy opened and closed a thousand doors left unlocked in his mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A week ago, what started with a few pages written over the summer soon turned into three chapters, including this one. I will edit the next two chapters and hope to post them in the next week or so.
> 
> Thank you to everyone taking time to read my chapters and post comments and encouragement! 
> 
> The AO3 community is AWESOME!
> 
> It is known.


	12. The Warrior's Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Jaime must claim the Warrior's courage to learn from his past and face his present and future...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the wonderful Isola_Caramella for the beta read! I *heart* you! 
> 
> All mistakes are my own...

Jaime Lannister thought of all the awkward meals the past fortnight.

He thought of the meals to divert his mind from remembering this morning’s sound, the sound of boots beating a heavy rhythm against the Guest House floors. He would not leave his room until the halls stood empty and the sound of the boots faded and crunched through the gravel and salted yard.

_The boy himself said he cannot see everything…together?...love?...completion, hmmm, Prince Brandon?_

He grunted and shook Brienne of Tarth from his mind.

_Gods, the meals…_

Meals made so uncomfortable with whispers and glares and darting glances from Brienne, Jaime escaped to something he hated almost more than Cersei.

He grunted then groaned.

Reading.

Jaime Lannister took to spending his time after the evening meal in the small library while the fat maester examined the runes inscribed on Lion’s Heart. Then Maester Tarly listened to Jaime read aloud from the Stark children’s old primers.

When he first heard Jaime stammering over the simple text, Maester Tarly asked why Jaime never learned to read with ease.

Tywin’s scowling face loomed in Jaime’s view. “My father,” he answered.

Samwell Tarly blinked. “Right. Say no more, Ser Jaime.” The man swallowed and repeated Jaime’s reason. “ _Fathers_.”

From that moment forward, Maester Tarly made improving Jaime Lannister’s reading his own pilgrimage to heal another man broken by the careless cruelty of his father. He taught Jaime that letters were naught but shapes and words, a collection of those shapes. He taught Jaime to memorize the shapes as if drawing them through the air with the point of his sword.

Now, Jaime tried to distract his mind from the pain burning through the muscles of his chest. He grunted and sparred through the shape of a few words he struggled with last evening, the candles melting to waxen stubs atop the ironwood table.

It did not work.

He still felt as if his chest would collapse inside his body.

_Keep going, you bastard._

Now, Jaime’s arm burned.

 _Do not stop, you toothless lion_. _If the old man did this everyday, so can you, you golden cripple._

Jaime thought his arm would melt from his shoulder in a burst of flame.

But he would keep going until it did.

And anyone who saw him now would think his face rippled in a grimace although he smiled.

For as long as he remembered, Jaime saw in others’ eyes that he cut a handsome figure, his height and slim waist and broad shoulders blessings from Tywin and Joanna Lannister. These natural gifts, combined with long years of hard training, left him a physical specimen. Jaime saw the lowered lashes, toothsome smiles and tugging down of bodices by women, no matter if they cleaned his chamber pot or ruled a keep. For most of his life, he noted the assessing admiration or the razors of envy in the eyes of men staring across wide tables and crowded training yards. But the lean months on the road, the days spent chained in his cell, left most of his muscle faded to weakness, his body thin with little stamina.

Jaime vowed to change all of this.

And he took as his template for strength, the doughty and spry Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold.

Ser Barristan proved a man who even with a snow-white beard and close cropping of white hair stood more impressive in strength, agility and endurance than most men half his age. As Jaime put his only hand in the center for balance, pushing his planked body up and down from the ground, he remembered Ser Barristan’s strong arms and shoulders, his chest and stomach muscles corded like iron rings, his thighs and calves thick like sturdy oaks. Jaime grunted and pushed, remembering why he could never call Barristan Selmy a friend. Jaime knew the old knight judged him as unworthy of the white cloak draped around his golden shoulders for plunging a sword through their king’s turned back. Jaime had come close to telling the man the truth if only to stop the disgust fuming in his clear, gray eyes whenever they gazed in the Kingslayer’s direction.

Jaime never did.

Barristan Selmy served the same Mad King Jaime served, heard the Queen take a brutal beating every time the king took a notion. Barristan Selmy, too, saw men burned, heard their high, keening screams, smelled their flesh as it crisped and curled to ash. He saw, like Jaime, Aerys grow more erratic, more disjointed in thought, incoherent in speech with each new rising of the sun. And like Jaime, he served in slow-blinking, tight-lipped, white-faced silence. So Jaime said nothing, not a word to Ser Barristan in his own defense.

Because if anyone should know why Jaime stabbed his blade through Aerys’ hunched back, it was Ser Barristan the Bold.

Jaime took the rejection from the greatest knight in the realm and paid him back in sneering japes and rolling eyes, vowing he needed nor wanted anything like respect from the old man.

But now, at last, he was taking _something_ from Selmy.

Every morning and afternoon since his talk with Brandon Stark, Jaime first warmed his body with jumps and routines then a series of exercises to strengthen the muscles in his arms, legs and stomach. After his muscles burned from use, he ran through the purple twilight carpeting the godswood, strengthening his breath to endure the long, bloody work of battlefields . Then, beneath the quiet trees, he practiced at swords until his arm felt aflame. To close his daily ritual, Jaime fought against a shadow opponent before resting, his back against the Heart Tree. Jaime cleaned his blade and spoke with Prince Brandon under the blinking light of scant stars. Hodor hovered nearby, a tuneless humming meandering from the giant’s throat.

 _If I take one thing from the old man_ , he thought, his arm wobbling beneath him, _it is his dedication to staying strong. Staying ready. And killing anyone who threatened those he swore to protect._

The shambling White Walkers and sneering Petyr Baelish appeared in the eyes of Jaime’s mind. And he found, with one more wavering push from the ground, the reason to push up and down 39 times before falling flat with a groan. He stayed there a moment before pushing to his knees, his quick breaths steaming into the cold mist.  

“Excuse me, milord.” The girl, as always, gave him a quick curtsey before walking away, her hips swaying beneath her shift. A few times she glanced back to see if Jaime noticed and smiled. Jaime knew it best not to encourage the girl to go from smiles to more so he only gave a short nod. He waited for the girl to pass through the door before jumping up to grip the metal bar over the frame with his gloved hand. With a grunt, he pulled his body up then down, up then down, gasping and groaning with each pull until his arm, shoulder and back burned like white fire. Then Jaime dropped to the ground, gaining a few breaths before lying prone, away from the door, to lift and lower himself with his handless forearm. The fight on the night he lost Weasel proved he must keep this right arm strong if he hoped to use it to wield dragonglass. He heard voices and groaned as much from frustration as discomfort. He first chose this door for the iron bar hanging over the transom---and the fact no one seemed interested in frequent visits to the Library Tower, Winterfell’s largest library. But in only a few days, there was the full-hipped serving girl, comely, russet hair, eyes of brown and green, with three or four more years than Sansa Stark. The girl seemed to be in and out of the door with a bright grin, a roll of her hips and a “Pardon, milord,” said deep in her throat every time Jaime lifted his eyes.

 _I must needs find another place_ , he thought, preparing himself to face rebuking glances and mutters of “Kingslayer” from the approaching strangers. Instead he heard the chirping voice of Samwell Tarly.

“Oh, good afternoon, Ser Jaime. You’re finishing the day with a cracking end, I see.”

Jaime slowly pushed to his knees once more _…trying to work myself into a dreamless sleep, Maester Tarly, but the thrice-damned world keeps interrupting me…_ and looked up at the maester, the woman from the Summer Isles and... _Brienne_. Maester Tarly’s large arms overflowed with scrolled parchments as he gave Jaime a wide smile. Jaime stood from his knees. The maester flicked his gaze to the woman farthest on his left, settling on the blazing cheeks of Brienne of Tarth. Then Samwell Tarly turned owlish eyes once more to Jaime.

“Maester Tarly,” Jaime managed to gasp out in greeting. He swallowed, boring his gaze through Brienne’s bright red face. “Lady Brienne. And, forgive me-,”

Jaime realized he saw before him the woman dining to Brienne’s left at every meal. Between Maester Tarly and Brienne of Tarth stood the same ebon skinned woman of the Summer Isles, long of limb, her clear, dark eyes the shape of almonds broken from their shells. She peered at Jaime through thick lashes. A few tight curls, black as clouds in a starless sky, escaped from the chignon at the top of her small head. Dangling between the nostrils of her proud nose was a ring, a charm of the half moon but on its side, like a pearly grin. It was made of the same luminous material as the half moon etched on the black leather of her plastron. Her cheekbones stood high and wide, her slim oval face tapered to a small chin under full mauve lips. She titled her head and smiled, all poise, all assurance. The ease of it blooming across her face reminded Jaime of his brave, copper-haired friend. He thought of Addam Marbrand and dipped his head to the woman and Brienne of Tarth.

If Cersei Lannister was ever one kind of beauty, this woman was surely another.

But for Jaime, the most beautiful woman in the world stood before him now, chewing her bottom lip to shreds, her astonishing blue eyes looking every where but at his face.

Dressed as an archer, the woman of the Summer Isles adjusted the leather release on left hand and glanced to her right at Maester Tarly and to her left at Brienne. The ruddy flush fanning across Brienne’s face deepened to crimson as she closely examined her boots and said nothing.

Maester Tarly shook his head then sighed. “Forgive me, where are my manners?” Samwell Tarly shifted the parchments into the crook of his arm. “Ser Jaime Lannister, may I present The Half Moon of her people, _Nusu Zami_ Zerai Nyo or _Nusu Zami_ Nyo Zerai, as we would say in Westeros. _Nusu_ Nyo hails from the Northern Moon Temple of the Summer Isles and resides as an esteemed guest of His Grace’s, King Jon. _Nusu_ Nyo, may I present Ser Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock, Prince Brandon’s sworn sword.”

Jaime gave a deep bow to both women, his eyes on Brienne before he glanced at _Nusu_ Nyo. “Lady Nyo-,”

“ _Nusu_ , Ser. _Nusu_ Nyo. I am the _Nusu Zami_. But _Nusu_ Nyo will suffice.” Jaime noted her deep, lilting voice not unkind in her correction, only steady and firm.

Jaime bowed again. “Forgive me, _Nusu_ Nyo. Old habits and training, my lady-,” Jaime caught himself then chuckled. A ghost of smile graced Brienne’s mouth as her eyes leapt from his face then back to the ground.

 _Nusu_ Nyo glanced at Brienne then looked at Jaime’s handless arm. She smiled. “Die hard, Ser Jaime, it is known.” She lifted her eyes to look at him. “We spied you pulling yourself above the door. Do you wish to make your other arm strong?”

“Yes, of course, _Nusu_ Nyo. It’s only-.” He lifted his arm to show his stump. “A missing hand makes it difficult to grip the bar,” he drawled.

“Difficult _,_ ” she said, squinting and moving forward to examine the thick rod of metal. She stood for a moment, inspecting the holes above the transom. She turned to face Jaime and looked him from toes to head. “Difficult, yes, Ser Jaime. But not… _impossible_.”

Just then, a shadow moved in the doorway. The serving girl came to stand in silence behind _Nusu_ Nyo. The girl’s eyes flew wide. Without turning around, _Nusu_ Nyo said, “This is not a good place to strengthen your body, Ser Jaime. Too many…i _nterruptions_.” The girl blushed and stammered through “Milord” and “Milady” with bobbing curtsies before scooting around them and fleeing up the path. _Nusu_ Nyo exchanged a glance with Brienne. Brienne stood next to Maester Tarly, all thinned lips and hard eyes, the ferocious glint fixed on Jaime. _Nusu_ Nyo turned her face to Jaime’s beetled brows, halting the words from his opening mouth. “There is a better way to strengthen your body, Ser Jaime, even though you miss a hand. Maester Tarly and I will resolve this difficulty.” She smiled as he closed his mouth and turned toward her. “But, of course, only _you_ can resolve your greatest riddle.” She nodded then bowed to Jaime, a small hand over her heart before walking through the door to the waiting warmth of the Library Tower. Brienne lowered her head and followed _Nusu_ Nyo through the door.

Jaime reached to grasp her cloak but she slipped past his fingers. “Brienne, the girl-,”

“Good evening, Ser Jaime,” she answered, as though through clenched teeth.

She never looked back.

Jaime heard her boots stomping up the stairs to the broad tables and endless ring of books around the chamber. Jaime had been inside the Library Tower only once, too intimidated by the vault of tomes he could not read to ever enter again.

Maester Tarly grinned at him then stopped when he saw Jaime’s grimace. “Well, you have finally met the _Nusu_ _Zami_. The stories she tells, Ser Jaime! She collects them, here!” He lifted the scrolls. “Her tales will _surel_ y rival Maester Marwyn’s ‘The Book of Lost Books!’ She is also a master builder, an engineer. Her improvements nearly _doubled_ the efforts of rebuilding Winterfell. She is a skilled healer, a scholar, a poet. If anyone can solve how to get you up there without a hand,” he said, raising his eyes to the door, “ _Nusu_ Nyo can. And she is the best archer I have ever seen. She almost never misses. But you wouldn’t know that since you prefer to practice in… _seclusion_.”

Jaime scowled at the maester’s prying.   “You sound _smitte_ n, Maester Tarly. What does your _Gilly_ think of this infatuation?”

Tarly laughed. “She’s smitten, too! She helped save Gilly, Little Sam and a handful of sailors from a bloody flux aboard our ship to White Harbor. Gilly _swoons_ whenever _Nusu_ Nyo visits our chambers. I call it, ‘Swooning over the Half-Moon!’”

Jaime stared blank-faced at the jape.

Samwell Tarly blinked at him and waddled to the door. “Right. Well, then. Until tonight, Ser-,”

“She spoke of resolving another riddle.”

Maester Tarly stopped and smiled. “She is also best of friends with Lady Brienne. But there is only so much a maester or _Nusu_ can do, as you know. Some riddles, one must solve on one’s own. Good evening, Ser. And do not forget to memorize the shape of ‘sword’ and ‘laughter,’ Ser Jaime.”

Jaime threw his head back with a groan. “Why do some words have thrice-damned _silent_ letters?”

Maester Tarly shrugged a round shoulder. “That is how they are made. They just… _do_.”

Jaime Lannister watched as the maester shuffled into the darkness waiting beyond the door.

Jaime heard the bells toll. The Hour of the Bear. He put his arm through his woolen vest stuffed with goose feathers, a fine, warm gift from Prince Brandon. He would jog through the godswood, while there was still light. Then his twilight talk with Brandon Stark then a quick dip in the men’s bath before dressing and heading to the Great Hall. Every evening in Hodor’s great arms, Brandon Stark was brought a little farther and farther from the Heart Tree, clawing his way from the beaten path up the slope to the white trunk. Beneath the red leaves, the old knight and wise boy spoke until the first stars kindled over their heads. Jaime cleaned Lion’s Heart in these quiet moments, stopping only to fill his eyes with the wonder of Bran’s tales. He smiled as he ran through the Keep. Though the boy relented and let him sit in the back amongst the smallfolk, he still sent Jaime the choicest cuts of meat---and Jaime in his feigned innocence left a good portion to feed those around him, even as they sneered and gave him sidelong glances. Jaime dropped his smile and picked up his pace, pulling deeper breaths to his lungs as he ran. He remembered well the shape of the word ‘Kingslayer’ and if they read, so did his sullen supper companions.

He ran and ran and ran, wishing he could avoid another meal, alone, in the back of the boisterous and sweltering Great Hall of Winterfell.

 

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

 

Seven days later, Jaime Lannister glared at the answer for making his arm strong without a hand.

 _Nusu_ Nyo and Maester Tarly drew plans then ordered bars and beams and loops of sturdy rope of various heights erected in the thick swell of Winterfell’s domed training yard. Jaime scowled at the ironwood apparatus and sighed as he pushed his way through the staring crowd. _Nusu_ Nyo stood to the side of the enclosure, choosing from a menu of arrows for the butts. She turned and smiled at the thunder darkening Jaime’s face.

“You cannot hide your light forever, Ser Jaime,” she lilted, in way of greeting. “You will lead King Jon’s soliders one day.” Nusu Nyo tested the bend in an arrow made of yew.

“I will?” Jaime asked, with wide eyes.

The ebon skinned woman smiled at him before turning her eyes back to the arrow. “Certainly. Lady Brienne once spoke of you as...the greatest sword hand in the realms. She named you a fierce general. And in fact, generals lead armies, yes?”

Jaime’s face warmed under Brienne’s praise. “I once led armies for my lord father, for whomever sat the Iron Throne. But now, I doubt Jon Sow wants a _Lannister_ to lead his army, _Nusu_ Nyo.”

“No,” she said, her smile wide. “He _needs_ you to lead his army, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime grit his teeth. “With all due respect, _Nusu_ Nyo-,”

“In my temple,” she broke in, stepping closer, “ there is inscribed a saying upon jet black tiles in swirling, silver _nakara_ , as if written in moonlight. A thousand years ago, the great calligraphist _Nusu_ Nami’ye collected the _nakara_ shell by shell and she wrote: ‘ _The moon rides silent in the night sky and sees much of what lies hidden’_.” Her full mouth curved in a soft smile. “As do I, Ser Jaime. As do others.” She put her small, dark hand over the glowing half moon of her plastron and gave a deep bow, as was her custom. Then Jaime watched the tall woman turn and stride to the archery butts, the fresh, spiced scent of Sunstar in her wake. Jaime noticed many men, wildling and soldier alike, watching her, too.

“They’ve finally stopped trying to steal her.”

Jaime turned to see the bare arms of the young man so taken with Arya Stark.

_Does he own any shirts with sleeves?_

Jaime squinted at the black-haired boy as his fingers gripped the roaring lion hilt of his sword. “What do you _mean_? _Whom_ is trying to steal _Nusu_ Nyo?”

The youth leaned in and whispered, “The Free Folk, as they like to be called. That’s how they do it, Ser. They see a woman they fancy and they try to steal her. Like that woman from the Summer Isles.” He angled his head toward the butts. “And Lady Brienne.”

Jaime felt his eyes bulge from their sockets and he half pulled the sword from its scabbard. “ _What?_ Where?” He released Lion’s Heart to grab a handful of the boy’s leather vest. “Name these brigands and-,”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Gendry Waters,” Arya drawled from behind, coming to slide between the black-haired boy and Jaime Lannister. She pushed Gendry back from Jaime’s flashing eyes and scowling mouth. “Lady Brienne and _Nusu_ Nyo have beaten back any… _thieves_.” She wrinkled her brow. “Or should I say, beaten _bloody_.” Arya turned to Jaime, giving him a slow rake from toes to head. “Only, if _you_ were too busy _stealing_ Lady Brienne Ser Jaime, you would know you have no rivals.”

Jaime curled his mouth in a grimace. He whipped off his edged steel, handing the blade to the guard of live swords. “Not a scratch,” he snarled to the man. Then he snatched a tourney sword, feeling clumsy before some watching, waiting eyes in the yard. Jaime had not fought a real opponent since the night of the Others and even then, fear and the gods ruled his sword.

He swallowed then twisted his lips in a sneer.

_Let them wait and watch a while longer, wondering how the crippled lion will fare._

He found a quiet spot in the yard to begin his ritual. With a deep breath, he began jumping up and down, swinging wide his arms and legs, opening and closing them at the same time.

Arya and the young man imitated his motions.

“I’d like to join, too.”

Jaime stopped jumping to stare into the smiling face of Podrick Payne. “ _Pod_! What the Seven Devils are you all doing?”

Arya barely panted out her answer. “Whatever the _hells_ this thrice-damned jumping is called.”

“No matter the _name_ , girl. I did not issue any of you an invitation to join me.”

Arya rolled her eyes and never stopped jumping. So, too, continued the young men.

“How much longer, Ser?” wheezed Pod.

Jaime sighed and began jumping once more. “Until I say stop, boy.” Soon they moved to other exercises. Jaime enjoyed the scowling faces and curses of the boys. Arya tried not to look bored and Jaime wondered at her training with the Faceless Men. Jaime wiped the sweat from his eyes and peered at the boy Gendry. He gripped a high bar on _Nusu_ Nyo’s contraption and began pulling himself up and down, his rigid body like a smooth, straight line. He proved strong as a team of oxen, truly, but there seemed little grace in his feet. Jaime glanced at Arya mirroring the same feats as Gendry. The boy dropped to the ground with a groan, shaking his arms. Arya smirked and kept going. Gendry returned her challenge and jumped for the bar once more. Jaime narrowed his eyes, staring at Arya. The girl possessed an uncanny strength, all subtle, fluid movement. _A deadly foe, if ever one lived._

Jaime turned his eyes to Pod, struggling to keep pace with Arya and the blacksmith. He smiled.

_I wonder if you still live behind the high walls of Stokeworth, Ser Bronn?_

He dropped his smile as Pod staggered to the ground, gulping air.

 _And I pray to the gods the boy preserves any sellsword sleights you taught at Riverrun_.

Jaime walked to the squire, shaking his head. “It is not enough to wield live steel, Pod. If you cannot be swift in mind, strong in lungs and limbs then you have no place on the battlefield.”

“I’m sorry, Ser,” Pod gasped, bending at the waist to catch his breath. “It’s just…I’m not…I’m not very _good_.” He pulled himself up to stand though his eyes still looked at Jaime’s boots. “Milady is a willing teacher and I want to learn how to fight, I _do_ , but…I’m afraid I’ll never…never...” Pod swallowed then turned, as if to leave.

“ _Ha_!” Arya barked. She strode to Podrick Payne, blocking the path of the squire. “Did _you_ not survive the bloody Battle of the Blackwater, Pod? Did _you_ not save Lord Tyrion’s life?” The boy nodded, his eyes on the ground. “So I thought,” Arya said, her voice cooled as she gazed at Jaime. “So where did you hide _your_ _s_ wift mind and strong lungs and limbs at the Whispering Wood, Ser Jaime?” Jaime gaped, his eyes wide. Arya shrugged. “He is right, of course, Pod,” she said, never taking her gray eyes from Jaime's face. “And so am I. Ser Jaime speaks truly of endurance. But one need know when to use _patience_ and action. And there is always luck.” She smiled, slipping her eyes to the squire’s wrist. “And you prove one _lucky_ bastard, Podrick Payne.” Gendry laughed then groaned as he held the muscles of his chiseled stomach.

Jaime clenched his jaw and gripped the tourney sword in a tight fist. He turned and started for the sword keeper.

“They say much worse, Ser Jaime,” Arya called to his back. “And yet, who is _luckier_ than you in all the realm?”

He stopped and turned to face Arya Stark, her smile gone, her mouth a thin line. “I did not ask for you to join me nor do I welcome your ridicule, wretch of a girl. I only meant to _instruct_ the boy.”

She walked forward then nodded at the wooden sword dangling at his side. “He _will_ improve. As I did. As did you, once, long ago. So instruct him. Instruct us all. The time has come to face more than your shadow, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime stared at Arya’s hard, gray eyes for a long moment. Then he turned and continued walking. He collected Lion’s Heart and never looked back as he stalked to the waiting silence of the godswood.

The next day, more people milled about the practice yard, nudging each other when he appeared. Arya said nothing as he left Lion’s Heart, not bothering to pick up a tourney sword. Jaime walked to the quiet spot from the day before, preparing to push his prone body up to a squat from the ground then jump in the air, arms stretched above his head before repeating. When he turned around, many faces looked back at him.

“What you doing?” Jaime snapped. “What do you want of me?”

In front of the small crowd, Arya smiled. “They see how you have transformed yourself, Ser Jaime. They see your determination to strengthen your body and mind.” She stepped forward and held out a wooden sword, the hilt toward Jaime. “If you truly honor us Wolves, Ser Jaime, you _must_ train our people. You _must_ help guide our pack. Those here, you stand as a legend in their eyes. And they wish to be trained…by _you_.”

“I am a _fool_ ,” he snarled. “You proved it yourself. They are better trained by _you_ , Arya Stark.”

She pressed the butt of the sword into his chest. “No. You are a leader of men.   Your light is meant to guide them in the darkness. I am of the shadows, Ser Jaime, where I serve the old gods in stealth. That is _my_ gift. And _your_ gift is guidance. You must teach the people everything you know. Your triumphs. Your tragedies. Your will to fight on.” Jaime felt the blunt hilt in his sternum. “ _Lead_ them.”  

Jaime looked at Arya Stark and behind her, the blacksmith and Brienne’s smiling squire. He knew the girl spoke truly of his great change.

In the span of a moon’s turning, Jaime Lannister scarcely recognized his reflection in the mirrored glass hanging from a thick nail in his room. Gone were his hollowed cheeks, the dingy pallor to his skin, his thin, feeble arms dangling at his sides. Now, hearty meals, deep sleep and a daily vigorous regimen gave him a lean, hard body etched once more with muscle, his golden hair and thick beard gleaming like the sun in summer. Health returned to clear his skin of its sallow coloring and he wore his hair long and gathered at his neck, in the northern style. But he trimmed his beard, keeping it close to his square jaw.

For though he lived among the Wolves, Jaime was still a Lion of the south.

Many noted this change.

But if they thought it all for vanity and pride, they were greater fools than Moon Boy. Jaime looked down at the sword then raised is eyes to the faces waiting in the small clearing. He vowed to protect the Wolves, their home and the realms of men against the terror coming for them all.

Jaime looked down, once more.

He reached out his hand and took the sword.

That day, he sparred only with Arya Stark, losing again and again and again, learning more from the left-handed girl every time he tumbled to the dirt. Even when he stalked her, cutting off escape or retreat, she still managed to slip past his sword and deliver a blow to his kidneys. He lost and he lost some more, tagged over his heart, his liver and throat until he finally lost count. He lost, a blade through his temple and lost both eyes, the second time for both. Despite his reach and weight advantage over the small, wisp of a girl, he lost and gained his feet, only to lose again.

He had lost to another woman before. Jaime laughed at the memory and rushed at Arya once more, only to step into a killing cut. He lost and lost and lost.

And then, he won.

He won another victory only to lose one more. But he could not stop the grin creeping up from his beard to his eyes.

The next day, Jaime repeated his lessons with Arya, losing more than he won. But he returned the next day and the next, noting how quickly he improved against another left-handed fighter. Jaime finished and turned to see what felt like every soldier watching them spar. His gaze sharpened, meeting the blue eyes of the tallest person in the crowd. Beside Brienne stood _Nusu_ Nyo, a soft smile gracing her lips. He ducked his head as he walked through the yard, surprised at a few pats on his back. That dusk, Prince Brandon remarked on the sparkle in Jaime’s eyes and smiled at the old tune his sworn sword hummed in a thin, cracking falsetto.

They had just finished another bout of sparring on the fifth day. Jaime bent at his waist and rested his hand and stump on his knees. Sweat made beads in the dust of the training yard. He gasped as he stood and reached to help Arya to her feet.

“Greetings, brothers,” said Arya to a spot behind Jaime’s shoulder. A smile touched her mouth. “And Lady Brienne.”

Jaime whipped to see Jon Snow and Rickon Stark standing off to the side of the clearing. Davos Seaworth stood just behind Jon. Beside the Stormlander stood Lady Brienne.

“Sister,” answered Jon with a nod. “Ser Jaime.”

“Jon Snow, ” said Jaime swallowing, returning the curt nod as he looked at his boots then again at Brienne. He felt unsure of what he saw in her eyes. “Lady Brienne. Prince Rickon. Ser Davos. If you will excuse me, please?”

Jon pursed his lips, his eyes hard on Jaime’s face but the boy said nothing more.

As the yard emptied, Jaime passed the King and his Hand. He saw a look pass between their eyes. The King in the North nodded in answer to what seemed a silent question.

“Ser Jaime,” Jon called. “If I may have a word?”

Jaime turned to face King Jon. Jon glanced at Lady Brienne. “And a word with you as well, my lady?”

Heat leapt into Brienne’s cheeks, turning them red as a smithy furnace. “Of course, Your Grace,” she answered, a stiff dip of her head to Jon’s request.

“Very well,” said Jon standing between Jaime and Brienne. “I will come straight to the point. We must train people for fighting. Many of the smallfolk now harbored behind our walls never held castle-forged steel or learned to fight beyond an ambush from the Free Folk. The few Stark soldiers and Free Folk remaining could use more discipline and skill.” Jon Snow looked them both in their eyes. “I need people to train them, to lead them.” He fixed his eyes on Jaime, lowering his voice. “People… _I trust_.”

Jaime squinted at the boy. “ _Now_ , you trust _me_ , Jon Snow? You meant to _kill_ me recently, if memory serves.”

Jon ground his teeth beneath his flexed jaw. “Your final words in your cell proved wise beyond measure. And your death would have proved a grievous mistake, Ser Jaime, as Prince Brandon assures me.  As a king and a man, I admit I was... _wrong_.” Jon stepped closer to Jaime, his voice and eyes soft. “Do you love my brother?”

Jaime’s mouth widened. “With all my heart,” he answered at once.

Jon smiled and Jaime could not remember the last time he saw a grin light the boy’s handsome face. “I know you do, truly. The love you bear for him and he for you is why I trust you, Ser Jaime. And that is why you _must_ train the people to protect him.” He stepped back, glancing once more between Jaime and Brienne. “Will you train my people?”

“Of course,” answered Brienne, in her steady, firm voice. She stepped forward and gave the King a deep bow. “It would be an honor.”

Jon turned to Jaime Lannister. “And you, Ser? Will you train my people?’

Jaime looked at the boy for a moment, noting how assured he sounded, how clear his deep gray eyes.

_Perhaps here stands the king I have longed to serve all my life, after Rhaegar’s death…_

Jaime swallowed past the memory of The last Dragon’s smile. “Yes, boy,” he said. “I will train your people for battle.”

“Good.” There was no joyful lift in Jon’s words, only grim acceptance. “Then we shall train in shifts. I shall train them in the mornings, Lady Brienne at the sun’s zenith and you, Ser Jaime, while the light holds. Our training shifts begin on the morrow. Until then.” Jaime watched him leave the thinning yard in deep talk with Ser Davos, Rickon Stark throwing backward glances in their trail. Jaime nodded to Lady Brienne then left the training yard.

He had just collected his sword, toweled himself dry and changed into a fresh tunic when he heard her voice behind him. She cleared her throat.

“Ser-Ser Jaime. If I may have a word?”

He turned to Lady Brienne, his eyes traveling up her long legs, broad shoulders, her hands clasped behind her back. He finally brought his eyes to her flushed face. “Yes?” Jaime was surprised by the calm of his voice.

“I wish-,” she said, her own voice wavering. “I wish to… _apologize_. For my… _unkindness_ at the Library Tower.” She straightened to look him in the eyes. “Your… _affairs_ …are your own, Ser Jaime, and none of my concern.” She bit her bottom lip and bowed. “Again. I apologize.” She pivoted on her heel and turned to leave.

“ _Stop_ ,” Jaime ordered. At the snarl in his voice, the few people in the area exited on swift feet, leaving them alone. Jaime gazed at Brienne through narrowed eyes and felt his teeth grinding at the back of his jaw. “And what do you think are my _affairs_ , Lady Brienne?”

She blinked at him. “I meant no offense, Ser. Only, it would seem you have an _ardent_ admirer, Ser Jaime.”

“So it would seem.” He began fastening Lion’s Heart around his waist in tight, jerking motions, his eyes never leaving her face.

“So I apologize if I… _we_ …interrupted your... _appointment_.”

Jaime’s fingers froze in their movements. He stared at her, eyebrows raised almost to his hairline. “My… _appointment_?”

“You are the talk of all the women of Winterfell, Ser.” She cleared her throat and once more squared her broad shoulders, standing straight, her hand on the hilt at her side. “They wonder if you have… _taken_ … _chosen_ from among them.”

Jaime looked at Brienne and barked a sharp laugh. Whatever patience he claimed burned away to ash at her suggestion. _Do I have a woman?_ he wanted to shout. _Is this what you come to ask of me, stupid wench?_ _Yes,_ he wished to roar in her face, _yes, I lie in bed every night and at first light with my throbbing cock in my hand, willing my mind not to think of you, not to run naked to your room, kick down your door, slide between your thick, warm thighs, kiss the nick I made there with my blade, wrap your endless legs around my waist, and take you with a savage fury until you scream my name…yes, I have a woman, wench…a woman made only of my dreams…_

Instead, he said, his voice soft, chill as the wind, “ _They_ wonder, Lady Brienne? Or do _you_ wonder?”

She gripped the roaring lion on her pommel and said nothing.

Jaime scoffed. “Well, at least have the courage to ask outright.”

Brienne’s face mottled with anger as her nostrils flared. “ _Courage_ , Ser? You speak to _me_ of… _courage_? When you struggle, even now, to look me in the eye?”

Something broke in him then, vicious and snarling in his chest. He stared at her. Jaime felt his eyes ringed in ice. “Yes, _courage_ , Brienne. Courage to hear my answer, wench. For if the answer is ‘yes, a woman warms my bed,’ will you weep? And if the answer is no, will you wonder why I have not taken a woman to warm me through these long, cold nights.” He took a step toward her, his voice like a hiss. “And if so, whom would I choose? That girl, with the sway in her hips?” He took another step, smiling, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “Or perhaps, another? Or another, still?   So which is it, Lady Brienne, hmm? Which answer do you wish to hear?”

She took a step toward him, closing the distance with a long stride. “The truth, Ser. As you have always given me. I did not imagine my feelings, Ser Jaime. Not in your cell. Not when I left King’s Landing. Not at Riverrun.” She blinked. “Not… _ever_.” Anger held her voice steady and strong. “And I do not imagine what I see in your gaze when you _dare_ to look at me.”

Even now, Jaime could not stop his eyes skipping across her broad, plain face, lingering over the fullness of her mouth, settling on her wide, watching eyes. In the training yard of Winterfell, Jaime Lannister stood the closest to Brienne of Tarth since the siege in the Riverlands. He breathed in her scent, locked in the moment of her astonishing gaze and smelled earthy leather and sweat and calming lavender and… _Brienne_. Jaime knew he need only take one more step and she would catch him inside the sturdy circle of her arms. He blinked. Jaime shook his head, clearing the vision. He slid two steps back, standing in the arched doorway of the weapons room. Jaime watched her eyes narrow, her lips part, but before she could speak, he turned and walked through the door and into the empty yard, once more putting space between them. She came to the doorway but did not cross the threshold to stand beside him in the yard. Jaime looked at the question in her eyes and remembered how it felt to learn what he thought truth, proved only a lie. “Lady Brienne, what we said that night in my cell, what we _felt_ was…”

“Real,” she finished.

Jaime flashed a smile then bit his lip. “Yes. _Real_. And I will not leave you to wonder as I did with-,” He shook his head, shaking away Cersei’s name. “So, then, you know the answer to your ridiculous question. No woman sleeps in my bed. And no woman ever will.” He shifted but did not take his eyes from her ashen face. “Brienne, you are right to question my own… _courage_. I should have come to you on the night of my pardon, told you of my… _vow_. So I will tell you, now.” Jaime swallowed. “I cannot divide my heart. I will not hazard my honor, my _duty_. I will live as I once promised to live as a Kingsguard but broke my oath before gods and men.” He paused to even his voice. “Now, my lady, I must live… _alone_.”

“And what we felt?” she breathed, taking a step closer, almost into the darkening yard. “I feel it, still. Where does that go, Jaime?”

Jaime stared at her wide eyes and swallowed the tight knot threatening to choke his breath. _Your warm hand on my shoulder, your mouth, wide with a smile, your bright eyes and the honor in them, the water sliding down your belly to the thicket hiding your…_ “I do not know, Brienne. I do not know. All I know is that I feel so… _unworthy_  of... _everything_. Even when I know what I do is… _right_.” He straightened his back and shook his head with a laugh. “Again, wench. I have done it again. Told only you what is whispered in my darkest thoughts.”

“Jaime-,”

“And that is why I must put my honor before-,” Jaime slid his eyes to his grime covered boots.

“Before what, Ser?”

_My heart._

Without warning, Jaime felt as if a great beast bore down on him from the lengthening shadows, his thoughts racing, fighting for control. He must leave.

“Jaime?”

He must stay.

“Jaim-,”

“But I _cannot,_ Brienne…I _will_ not…she… _she_ -,”

Brienne started through the door. “Jaime-,”

“Dreams.” Jaime held up his hand before she reached him, _touched_ him. Stood too close. Brienne stopped in her movements and watched Jaime. “Dreams, Lady Brienne. The answer to your question.” Jaime felt his heart slow its frantic beating and dropped his hand to rest on his hilt. “Dreams. That is where I put... _us_. That is where we… _go_.”

“Dreams,” she repeated, her voice soft.

“Yes, Brienne. Dreams.” Jaime could not meet her eyes, afraid he would break under the bright blue gaze. “Prince Brandon spoke to you of his dream?”

“Yes.” Her voice creaked on the single word. “He told me of our flaming blades. Princess Arya as well.”

“Then it is only right we train the Wolves for battle. I greatly esteem your skill as a warrior, for you are-,”

“Stronger than you and the _first_ woman to beat to you at swords.”

Jaime glimpsed the hard set of her jaw and could not help but chuckle. “Truly. And you,” he drawled, “the first woman to bear that _peculiar_ mark on your thigh from my… _sword_.”

Her cheeks flushed and she swallowed a smile. When Jaime glanced again at Brienne, her mouth was a thin line. “I…I _understand_ your decision, Ser Jaime, truly. It takes… _courage_ …to live with honor.”

 _So why, now, staring into your eyes do I feel like dying?_ He smiled through his thoughts. “I know you of all people would understand, Lady Brienne.”

She bit her lip, a small step into the yard. “Then we are… _friends_?”

He shook his head, shaking away the lie, the temptation, knowing this deeper and greater than fellowship. “No. We are Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth. And there will come a time when we must work together, to draw our steel, to honor our vows to the Starks, to the realm. But until then, I must be-,”

“Alone.” The word fell like a stone from her lips onto Jaime’s heart. They stared at each other. In the darkness, Jaime saw a shimmer pooling in her eyes.

“Yes. Alone.” His own eyes burned. He gave a strange, angled bow. “My lady.”

He began to walk, slow at first then quickening his gait as he ran to the godswood. Jaime felt Brienne watching his retreat. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes.

He listened for her heavy steps behind him in the yard but he knew she would not follow.

And this time when he ran through the ancient wood, a heat smoldered deep inside his chest.

Jaime knew it would never burn away.


	13. The Singing Maid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Jaime returns, for a time, to the sea...
> 
> Thank you, Isola_Caramella, for the beta read!
> 
> All mistakes are mine...

Life moved in a blur at Winterfell.

Every person, from the scullery maid to the King in the North, walked and ran its halls and yards with clear purpose.

“The Cold One amasses his army.” Against the roots of the Heart Tree, Jaime glimpsed the dark smudges pooling around Brandon’s eyes. “I have seen it, Ser Jaime. I… _feel_ it.”

Jaime nodded at Bran’s words.

For there proved signs everywhere Jaime looked.

Jon Snow’s pinched gaze matched the purple bruises under Prince Bran’s eyes. Jaime noted the deep furrows of Davos Seaworth’s brow, the blanched faces of the people running to Winterfell’s thick gates.

And still no words, dark or bright with hope, returned from King’s Landing.

Winterfell already lived as a castle under siege. Rations became more stringent and exacting as more and more smallfolk sought shelter behind the high ring of stone. Jon ordered torches burned through the night to keep the efforts of restoring a blasted portion of the battlements in constant repair. Every able bodied man and willing woman trained to fight in a lottery of shifts, with Jon Snow in the mornings, Brienne in the mid-day and Jaime in the early darkness of the evening. _Nusu_ Nyo and Meera Reed trained archers in the long fields of the domed butts. While Jaime trained, he knew Jon Snow held a small council with Lord Baelish and Sansa Stark and a few attending lords. But later, long into the long nights, Jon took true council with Davos Seaworth, Brandon Stark and Jaime Lannister, whispering over melting candles as they put about the rumor of an epic game of cyvasse for only these four players.

But in truth, they played a more deadly game.

“You hate the game, Ser Jamie?” asked Ser Davos, noting Jaime’s scowls and constant scrubbing of his beard.

“Aye, I do.”

The Stormlander smiled. “And yet, you are in it, Ser. And you play better than you know.”

“I sense a compliment hiding _somewhere_ in there, Ser Davos,” Jaime drawled. “And I thank you, I suppose. But nobody living plays this game better than my brother, Tyrion.”

“And still,” said King Jon, “you remind us of my brother Robb’s error in letting his bannermen return home before the war won. We have made that mistake, too, I am afraid. The Glovers, the Cerwyns and others, gone, leaving less than half their men. Now, our bannermen fear to leave their keeps, knowing what awaits them beyond their walls, knowing well what they stand to lose.”   Jon shook his head, never looking to Jaime so much like a boy as he did in the candle's light. “I was stupid to grant them leave. I should have made them stay, made them fight. I am-,”

“A loving king,” Jaime finished. The boy’s eyes flew wide. “To _them_ ,” Jaime said, his voice firm. “To _them._ Though to me, you but a child and still make a child’s mistake.” Jon’s eyes snapped to slits and his gaping mouth sealed in a thin line. Bran’s eyes moved to all three faces like a triangle, saying nothing. Ser Davos glared at Jaime from across the table but Jaime raised one shoulder in a shrug. “And like your brother, you wished to appease the high lords for their fealty, to allow them to return home, to their warm beds and the women in them, to their families. But a ruler must _always_ weigh the few against the many, Jon Snow, the low against the high. And what is in a few men’s best interest must not outweigh the multitudes. This game is life or death and you must play like a man grown. Rule with love, when you _can_. And when not love, _bend_ them to your will. Lift your head, boy.” Jon raised his eyes, his circlet sitting higher. “Yet you are not the only ruler in Westeros and not the only throne weighing the same scales. Daenerys Targaryen faces the same dilemma.”

Jon sighed, nodding his head. “Perhaps. But even with the Vale soldiers, we cannot hope to hold Winterfell against the Others for very long. They defeated a full score of Black Brothers at the Fist of the First Men and surely their fell numbers grow each day.”

“That is why we need Daenerys and her dragons.”

Jon turned to Ser Davos. The King’s Hand shook his head. “Still no word, Your Grace.”

Jon’s eyes returned to Jaime Lannister. “And if our plea goes unanswered? If she will not come? What do we then, Ser Jaime?”

Jaime huffed a laugh, the answer obvious. “We die, boy.” His smile slipped to a grim line, matching his eyes. “And so will Daenerys Targaryen. For my brother stood on the Wall, next to your sworn brothers. And he knows if it falls, only Winterfell remains to guard the realms of men."

And on and on they went, trying for a way to survive the Others. Jaime knew Jon Snow wanted to learn the working of the realm as well as Tyrion’s subtle mind. Jaime told the boy what he thought would save them from ice and fire and feared it would not prove enough.

After many hours, Jaime would tumble into his great bed, grateful that young Jon Snow trained the first lot of soldiers in the mornings.  

Pod trained with the King for Jon Snow possessed a gift for bringing out the best of even the most questionable fighter with encouragements instead of mockery. Rickon trained with Brienne for she seemed to gentle the boy’s snapping and snarling temperament with a look, quelling him into stillness. Soon, Rickon Stark lived to coax a smile from the stolid Brienne of Tarth. Arya and Gendry continued their training with Jaime and now Jaime split his losses and wins to the girl evenly across each scrimmage. But every once in a while, Arya Stark surprised him with a trick, none nastier than when he bore down on her as she splayed across the ground, her sword kicked from her hand and for a moment, his mind belonged to her.

Jaime dropped to one knee, pounding his temples with a scream.

He felt as if his mind caught fire, awash with blood and pain.

“Arya!” Jaime heard Gendry’s roar above the rushing in his ears. “Let him go! Let him **_GO_**!”

Arya’s eyes snapped back from white to gray and she went scrambling to Jaime on hands and knees.

“Ser Jaime! Ser Jaime? **_SER JAIME!_** I am sorry, I-,”

Jaime reached out a trembling hand and grabbed the girl by the front of her sweat stained tunic. “Never,” he bit out in a fierce, panting hiss, “do that to _me_ or anyone in this yard _again_.” Jaime shook her with every word. “We _spar_ , Arya Stark, not fight to the death on the battlefield. That was a dirty trick, unworthy of you.” He slowly released the girl’s shirt.

Her eyes filled with tears. “I am sorry, Ser Jaime, ” she whispered. “Truly. I only _thought_ of doing it but before I could stop myself, I slipped inside your mind.”

Jaime stood and yanked Arya to her feet. “Then you must learn discipline. Tomorrow morning, you begin training with Bran.”

“In the mornings, I visit-,”

“From now on, you will visit with Bran or I will _ban_ you from the training yard. Is that understood, girl?”

Arya nodded, her eyes on the ground.

“Look at me, Arya Stark.” She raised her gaze to meet Jaime’s own. “Good sparring is built on trust, on learning what you must without grievous harming or humiliating your opponent.” Jaime curled a corner of his mouth. “As once I did with Pod. And if others do not trust you, they will not respect you. You could have hurt me, Arya.”

“I know and I am sorry, Ser Jaime.” Her eyes watered once more. “Because if something ever happened to you-,”

Jaime was not prepared for the girl’s launching of herself into his arms.

“Oof,” he huffed, staggering back a few paces, her arms tightening around his neck.  Jaime patted her shoulders with a smile.  Arya’s tipped-toes arched over the ground as she hung around his neck.  “There, there, little wolf. There, there.” He placed her on her feet and pulled back to study her face. “As long as you stay out of my mind, I should be fine,” he drawled. “Now. Let’s try that again, shall we? And this time, use another escape tactic other than thinking me a _cat_.”

Gendry shook his head, muttering, “Gods, milady,” as they made peace. Then the boy picked up his dropped tourney sword and began hacking another fighter across the yard.

The day before, after Jaime stole a few more moments of rest in the morning, he stopped by the forge to visit the young blacksmith. The boy’s work cooled on a long iron bench.

“You fashioned all of these?” Jaime asked.

“Yes, Ser Jaime,” Gendry answered, lifting his broad chest. “I been putting in extra time for King Jon.”

Jaime thumped his knuckles against a helm, listened to it sing. He looked at the boy. “Very good.” The boy beamed and Jaime swore he stood even taller. Jaime returned his smile. “Where did you learn your craft, Gendry Waters?”

“In King’s Landing. I apprenticed with Tobho Mott, Ser.”

“Ah, yes. I know the man.” _More like thief._ “And how did you come to make the acquaintance of Arya Stark?”

Gendry squinted. “Milady? We was traveling to the Wall, to join the Black Brothers.”

Jaime narrowed his own gaze, his tone sharp. “And _why_ were you bound for the Wall, boy?”

Gendry’s face paled beneath the black streaks on his cheeks. “Oh, no, Ser. Weren’t nothing like _that._ I’m no raper or cutpurse, if that’s your meaning. Some high lord thought it best I leave King’s Landing.” Gendry looked away.

“ _Why_?”

“On account she was killing every child what looked like him, Ser.” Gendry still refused to meet his eyes.

Ice pooled in Jaime’s heart though he knew well the answer to his question. “ _She_? _Him_?”

Gendry cleared his throat. “The Queen. Cersei Lannister. Your…twin, Ser. And King Robert. The fat one killed by a boar. Folk say I look the spitting image of him.”

Jaime nodded. “Truly. And who was the lord that saved your life?”

“I believe he was milady’s father. He wore a jewel, like a hand, on his tunic.”

 _Ned. It must be. Poor dead Ned_. There held no sneer in Jaime’s thoughts. Jaime picked up another helm in the gleaming row of Gendry’s mastery. “Do you know _why_ folk say you look like Robert Baratheon, boy?”

Gendry nodded. “Could only be one reason. I’m one of his bastards.”

Jaime studied his coal black hair, summer sky eyes. His height, his build, down to the cleft in his chin spelled the name of King Robert. “Yes. I believe so. I knew Robert Baratheon and you look the very image of him when slew the last Dragon in the Trident. Don’t look like that, boy,” he said to the frown pulling down Gendry’s face. “He had a very good reason. The Mad King burned the father of Robert’s best friend, Arya’s grandsire, Lord Rickard Stark. And there it sat, a throne for the taking.” Jaime shook his head. “An _ugly_ throne,” he drawled, “but a _throne_ , nonetheless.” Jaime tossed the helm to Gendry and the boy caught in with swift, strong fingers. “Are you any good with dragonglass, young Waters?”

“Dragonglass, Ser?” Gendry’s eyes shone with a blue glint. “That black stone? I don’t rightly know but I would love to try, Ser Jaime.”

“Then try you shall. I shall send a few pieces for you to test. I must needs something for _this_ when we go to war.” Jaime lifted his stump. Gendry nodded and Jaime turned to leave.

“ _When_ it comes to war, milord?”

Jaime glanced at the black-haired smith from over his shoulder. “Yes, boy. On one side, ice. The other side, fire. And in the middle, we stand alone, at Winterfell. Study all you can in the training yard.” Jaime turned to face the boy. “Can you read?”

Gendry raised a thick shoulder. “A little.” He bit his lip. “Barely.”

“Then visit with Maester Tarly and if he can spare any time, ask him to instruct you in reading.” Jaime swallowed. “He helped _me_ and now I read better than I ever dreamed possible.”

Gendry’s eyes bulged from his head. “ _What_? I thought all high lords and ladies learned to read as children, Ser Jaime! What happened?”

Jaime sighed. “It proves an overlong tale, young Waters. I shorten the telling to say my lord father was not the most patient of men and Maester Tarly suspects there is some… _issue_ , with my brain. I reverse letters in my mind when reading words.” Jaime shrugged. “Apparently, this affliction is quite common. The maester showed me tools to address it.” He smiled at the wonder in Gendry’s bright blue eyes. “And besides. You may become a lord yourself one day and a lord is expected to read. Believe me, young Waters. I know.”

Gendry wrinkled his brow, his mouth slack. “A _lord_ , Ser Jaime? How would _I_ become a lord?”

“There are many, many wonders in this world, boy. And we are only limited by the boundaries of our dreams.” He thought of warm hands, sapphire eyes. The smile slipped from Jaime’s face as the silence stretched to more than a few breaths. Gendry stared at him.

“Ser Jaime?” prompted the young blacksmith.

With a shake of his head, Jaime brought his mind back to the soot and clang of the smithy. “Remember this, Gendry Waters. Whatever the outcome of this war, our lives as we knew them before are forever changed. Already, it changes before our very eyes.” Jaime turned and started for the open door. “So learn well your lessons for the new days to come.”

 

************************************************************************

 

 

If Jaime spent his new days in the bustle of training the Wolves army, his early evenings were now spent at a long table in the Great Hall, trading feats of glory and war to rough laughter and draining of cups. Men and women, elders and youths leaned closer to hear Jaime’s tales of melees and tourneys, of his distinction that earned him his knighthood against the Kingswood outlaws. Pod at his side reminded him of himself once seated next to Ser Brynden Tully, his eyes full as a Hunter’s moon at the hearing of the Ninepenny Kings. Jaime shied away from the bleak telling of his two years with the Mad King or ending the siege of Riverrun in deference for the Stark children who shared Tully blood. Today, Jaime noted, the Stark brood seemed quiet, staring long into the distance and clamming shut when he asked after their health. As they changed training shifts, Jaime witnessed Brienne’s wide hands covering Rickon’s thin shoulders as she knelt and said something, the words soft, to the boy. Rickon reached long arms around her strong shoulders and she planted a kiss on the top of his russet curls. She stood and turned to gaze at the boy as he left the yard to train with _Nusu_ Nyo at the achery butts, unaware that Jaime watched the tender scene unfold. When their eyes did meet, Jaime gave her a crooked smile, enjoyed the garnet blush creeping up the thick column of her neck and deepening her face. He gave a single nod in farewell as he chose a tourney sword. When he returned, Brienne was gone.

Tonight in the cavern of the Great Hall, even the melodies straining from the harps and viols and bright pipes struck a soft, sad sound. Jaime was just putting the last embellishments on his account of a tourney at Crakehall when a voice called out, “Tell us of the Whispering Wood, Ser Jaime!”

All evening, Arya Stark sat beside him in silence, long abandoning her seat on the high dais for a place on the benches with Stark soldiers. Her gray eyes flew to Jaime’s startled face. He looked at the girl. A slow smile crept up from his golden beard. “Ah, yes, good friend. _The Whispering Wood_.” He brandished his stump. “Out of my capture, some would say, my _sharpest_ lesson yet.”

The hall rang with raucous laughter. Jaime looked at the smiling face of Arya Stark and added his own.

When only a few chuckles remained, the edges of tunics dabbing at tearing eyes, Jaime Lannister looked up and down the long table. “I was captured, aye, and held over a year in the dark belly of Riverrun, Lady Catelyn’s ancestral home.” At her lady mother’s name, Arya gave a start, her shoulders rigid. Jaime squinted down at the girl but she only shook her head. “And while Robb Stark proved a _brilliant_ strategist and tactician,” he continued, “ _I_ proved I deserved capture due to arrogance and haste. If Robb lived, I hold no doubt he would have beat us back to the gates of King’s Landing and in time, discovered some secret way to sack the city.” The room grew quiet as Jaime praised the young king. He heard only the sound of embers in the great hearths popping and crackling to ash. Jaime scanned the room and seemed to look every man, woman and child in their watching eyes. For a few breaths, he locked gazes with Brienne and swallowed, sorry to speak his next words. His eyes left her face to scan the silent room. “But instead, Robb Stark died. Robb Stark died a dishonorable death, at the hands of enemies---and allies. We were not proud, my brother Tyrion and myself, to learn of the deaths of Robb Stark and Lady Catelyn. There is war and there is butchery and what was done to the Wolves that night at the Twins proved… _wicked_. Savage. _Unholy_.” He reached down on the bench to tap his bandaged stump against Arya’s hand. “And though it took time, the gods pronounced those defilers of Guest’s Rights guilty. The bloody deaths of Catelyn and Robb Stark, avenged. So too, the deaths of their bannermen. Walder Frey, Roose Bolton, even my own lord father, Tywin Lannister, dead.” Jaime bit down on his lower lip, remembering the smell of his father’s dead body, a bolt through his bowels and Tyrion fled. The crowd murmured then and Jaime heard many an “Aye” floating round the chamber. “But,” he broke in, bringing himself back to the moment, “ _but_ still we remain at war though we know not how it begins nor how it ends.” His eyes found Brandon’s face. The boy slipped his gaze to the table. When he lifted his eyes, a sad smile curved his mouth and Jaime wondered if the boy glimpsed the answer, saw how the great battle would end through an open door. Bran shook his head, as if reading the question in Jaime’s eyes and lowered his lashes once more. On his left sat Prince Rickon, looking for the world as if he longed to cry. Jaime swallowed and continued. “We may not know if our world ends in ice or ashes but we know _this_. We must learn the hard lesson of the Whispering Wood and guard ourselves against over-reaching and impatience.” He looked across the room to Petyr Baelish on the high nobles platform, the man’s fingers in a little steeple as he sat next to an ashen Sansa Stark. Lady Brienne sat next to the Princess, blinking, redness spreading over her crooked nose. Beside Brienne, _Nusu_ Nyo gave Jaime a nod, her sloe eyes narrowed and somber as she listened to his words. Jaime bore his gaze through Lord Baelish. “We must remember well the bold treachery of the Red Wedding and those that would name themselves our _friends_. We must guard against whispers, promises. Lies. We must give deceit no place to hide. For when the grass is low,” Jaime murmured, his eyes fixed on Petyr Baelish, “the _snake_ will show.” For once, neither sneer nor smirk curled up from Littlefinger’s pointed beard. The corners of Jon Snow’s eyes slid to Petyr Baelish. Finally, the man smiled and stroked his chin. Then his eyes found interest somewhere in the room. Jaime took his flagon of watered ale in his remaining hand, his eyes returning to the faces around him. “To the Whispering Wood and the greatest loss I ever earned.” A few around him laughed and Jaime, smiling, took a swallow. Then he stood and raised his cup.

“To Robb Stark, the Young Wolf.”

Chairs and benches scraped over the stone floor as the hall rose to echo Jaime’s words. “To Robb Stark, the Young Wolf!”

All drained their cups to the last drops then sat.

Jaime and Jon Snow proved the last to sit. Jaime nodded to the boy, the hall filling once more with talk. Brienne met him with a thin smile. Arya’s straight back hunched over the table as Jaime reached to fill his empty cup. Jaime narrowed his eyes and leaned closer to see her hidden face.

“You’ve been quiet all day, Simply Arya. Are you well? Tell me the matter, little wolf and perhaps I can-,”

“You can’t-,” she whispered, shooting to her feet.

“Arya, wait-,”

“Let her go,” said Gendry, all sadness from Jaime’s other side. “She’s been like this all day.”

Arya darted around a few soldiers and smallfolk and disappeared through the door. Jaime turned to look at the boy. “Do you know the reason?”

Gendry shook a wisp of black hair from his eyes. “No. She won’t talk to me.”

Jaime eyed him and Gendry began to squirm. “You two are _close_. How close, boy? Did you harm the girl?”

“No! She’s me best friend, Ser Jaime!”

“Indeed.”

“Indeed, yes! I don’t know what is wrong. I’ve tried talking to her but she only called me names and pushed me away.”

Jaime glanced at the dais where Brienne of Tarth sat talking with _Nusu_ Nyo, the women intent on whatever words they shared. He sighed deep in his chest. “Sometimes, one needs the peace of one’s own mind.”

“Like you and Lady Brienne, milord?”

Jaime whipped his head to peer at Gendry. “We are _not_ speaking of me nor of Lady Brienne, _boy_.”

“Right,” said Gendry, red faced. “Pardon, milord. But I wonder, since our talk in the smithy, Ser Jaime? You knew my father. What was he like? Was he a good king?”

Jaime stared, wide-eyed at Gendry Waters. Then he threw back his head with a yelping laugh. “ _Robert Baratheon_? A good king? Gods no, boy! Oh, he was loud and rough and the people seemed to like him, I suppose. And judging from my sweet sister’s _bloody_ work in King’s Landing, he had a way with the ladies. But even if folk thought him cruel and uncouth, it is not like one would dare speak the truth, anyway.” Jaime turned and clapped Gendry on the shoulder. “You seem like a good lad, Master Waters. And with your longshanks, chiseled looks and brawn, I would say you took the best King Robert had to give. Your level head, you gave yourself.” Jaime slid his hand from Gendry’s shoulder and used it to lift his flagon to his mouth.

“Is that why you lay with your sister, Ser Jaime? Because Robert was a bad king?” Jaime sputtered his ale through his nose, looking at Gendry with streaming eyes. No hint of malice frosted the boy’s words.

“Well,” said Jaime through a cough. He wiped his nose with a wrinkled napkin. “I see Robert also gave his blunt Baratheon tongue, though it could as easily come from dear nuncle Stannis.” Jaime took a quick swig of the brew to settle his throat. “No, boy. I… _lay_ with her for the same reason I see in _your_ eyes when you look at ‘milady.’ For love.” He gave Gendry a glance. “And more.”

Gendry scowled. “We ain’t done nothing.”

“Oh, not yet." Jaime held up his pointing finger with a tilt of his head. "And I do _not_ propose you do. Only, ensure you both visit with Maester Tarly or _Nusu_ Nyo before _nothing_ becomes _something_. There are precautions you can take, Waters. I do not believe the King in the North wishes his sister grown great with a bastard’s bastard, boy.”

Gendry Waters looked as if Jaime Lannister struck him across his ruddy cheeks. “I won’t _dishonor_ milady! I would never! I want to-,”

“What?” Jaime laughed. “ _Marry_ the Princess Arya Stark of Winterfell?”

The young blacksmith gave Jaime a hard stare.

Jaime softened his own eyes, turning fully on the bench to face the boy. “Gendry. I only mean to say that though you come from low birth, you are _truly_ Robert Baratheon’s son. You have king’s blood in you, boy. All Jon Snow need do is grant you legitimacy. Grant you a title, some lands. No one would blink twice.” Gendry smiled then. “I suggest a war hammer and flaming anvil for your sigil.” Jaime flicked his eyes to Jon Snow. The King in the North sat in the center of the platform, a sheen glistening beneath his bronze crown. Jon’s gray eyes drifted over the warm room. Jaime looked at Gendry. “But it will not do to get a child on Princess Arya before then, boy.”

“I said-,”

“Yes. And I _heard_. Yet I _see_ how you gaze at each other, your bright smiles. And believe me. I know how far _nothing_ can go before you cannot halt what feels fated. Learn from an old knight’s mistake, boy. Do your duties well, serve your king, and do _not_ impregnate the king’s sister.” Jaime lifted his flagon in a toast, thankful for the soft roar in the room to drown his words. “Here’s to the future Lord and Lady Baratheon and all the black-haired babes he will sire--- when it is _time_.”

Gendry scowled and looked as if he would repeat his denial but at Jaime’s raised eyebrows, he stopped, closed his mouth. The boy angled his head to the dais as Jaime turned to face the table. “You’ve known a lot of kings, milord. What do you make of him?”

Jaime lowered his cup and gazed at Jon Snow. The boy sat as always on his weirwood throne, his bronze crown glinting in the ring of torches lighting the hall. His eyes flit around the room while his right hand scratched now and then behind his white wolf’s ears. Ser Davos would lean to say something to the boy who would answer only with a few words or a nod or a shake of his head. Since taking his meals in the Great Hall, Jaime Lannister judged the boy’s smile a rare sighting.

_What dour cloth you both cut from, Ned. I wonder. Will he ever know joy?_

But more than once, Jaime noted Jon Snow’s gray eyes settling on Petyr Baelish and his whispered smiles to Sansa Stark.

_He is afraid. But will fear fill him with caution or folly?_

As if called by name, Ghost lifted his head from his white paws and looked at Jaime.

Sound faded from Jaime’s hearing.

Jaime saw a door, half open.

In the crack, long white hair streamed and danced on a gentle wind.

The snowy strands disappeared into blackness just inside the slow closing of the door.

“Ser Jaime?”

Jaime stared at the door.

“ _Ser Jaime_?”

Jaime turned to see the narrowed eyes of Gendry Waters, his face wrinkled in worry.

“Are you alright, Ser?”

Jaime looked at the wolf. The red-eyed beast held Jaime’s gaze before blinking and lowering its head.

Jaime looked down, inspecting the amber liquid in his cup. He swirled the brew and noted Gendry and others drank from the same pitcher. All seemed in perfect health, no woozy staggering or glossed eyes. He blinked at the boy. “I am…I am fine, Master Waters. Overtired, I think.” Jaime gave the boy a thin smile and drawled, “I am not as young as a look.”

For a moment, Gendry tilted his head and said nothing. Finally, he asked, “So what do you think, Ser? Do you think he’ll make a great king?”

Jaime looked at the table and shook his head, clearing his thoughts of the closing door. When he lifted his eyes, he turned to Gendry Waters. “You are right. I have known many kings. A few queens. And only the gods know, boy,” Jaime answered. “What begins in war may end in peace, what grows high may burn to ash. Only time will tell.”

Gendry squinted at him and said nothing.

Just then, the sound of a chair scraping the wooden floor of the dais brought Jaime’s eyes to the front of the room. Sansa Stark stood tall and fair, tapping her spoon against a glass goblet, the light catching her copper braid. The girl cleared her throat with a delicate cough. Next to the princess, Brienne’s eyes never left her plate though _Nusu_ Nyo leaned over to whisper something with an easy smile. A feeling feathered across Jaime’s mind.

“I should leave.”

“What? _Why_?” stammered Gendry.

But Jaime Lannister already weaved through the throng, heading to the arched doorway. As he made his way he heard Sansa Stark’s trembling voice carry across the hall, saying, “Today marks our dear lady mother’s name day, a day bringing much sadness with the rising sun. With heavy hearts we grieve our lady mother, knowing how proud she would be to see us all together, once more, in the halls of Winterfell. Lady Brienne wishes to speak a few words in memory of our lady mother, Catelyn Stark. Lady Brienne?” Sansa moved her heavy woolen skirts to the side and sat once more. She bit her lip as if biting back tears.

Jaime stopped in his tracks and turned around.

_So this, the meaning of the Starks sadness…_

Jaime stood almost to the door.

_Simply Arya, Prince Brandon, why did you not say?_

Brienne rose from her high backed chair, her cheeks blazing as she gripped her goblet. She pulled a deep breath into her broad chest. “Long ago,” Brienne began, “I promised Lady Catelyn that I would sing for her one day. I told her I had no desire to sing but to fight and yet…I can think of no better way to honor her kindness to me but with song. So I sing here tonight, for her children, in her memory. For I know well the hurt of losing a mother.”

_As do I._

Brienne straightened her strong back. “To Lady Catelyn.” Brienne raised her cup.

“To Lady Catelyn!” echoed the hall.

In the quiet that followed, Brienne spoke once more. “I chose a song of my childhood to honor Lady Catelyn.” And from the front of the great room, her impossible eyes found Jaime. “A song…of the sea.”

Jaime waited, breath held in the silence.

And then she began, clear and low and strong. _“One day,”_ she sang, _“when I thought you lost, I walked upon the strand…”_

Jaime gasped, as if hit with a quarrel.

Her voice was as beautiful as the world said she was not.

Her song rose and fell on the low timbre of her voice, longing infused in every note, pulling images from his mind, sorrow from his heart. The room became the shore, the fine, warm sand scratching between Jaime’s bare toes. Jaime saw a thousand different browns and blues and deep colors of the sea, tasted the salt spraying across his mouth, heard the hungry screech of the gulls wheeling over his head, his eyes searching the black line of the horizon for the red sail of a lover’s ship, for he too was a child of the sea. Jaime felt his body grow heavy with the pull and push of the dancing tides, the stones in his pockets towing him down to the cold, dark sea floor, all quiet beneath the heaving, black waves. Jaime saw the red sail at last, the lover leaning over the ship’s salt stained rail, her bright hair free to leap about her wide shoulders, whipped to a frenzy by the wind. Jaime saw her straining to reach the dock and her lover’s waiting arms, his lover, Brienne of Tarth.

But it was too late.

His eyes slipped closed forever in the dark waters of his grave, abandoned by his lover for the sea.

When she finished, the crowd sat in silence. Not even a swallow of ale or a scape across an empty plate was heard. Brienne stood on the dais, worrying her bottom lip bloody, staring at her boots. He almost burst from the back of the room, roaring for the crowd to stand and applaud the maid’s voice.

But there was no need.

Clapping, cheering, whistles, shouts for more rang up from the floor of the Great Hall, spilling into the aisles and over the castle. Ser Davos stood and wiped a thumb below his left eye. Jon Snow stared at a spot on the floor. Rickon leapt from his seat, throwing his arms around Brienne’s thick waist. Jaime saw Brienne’s scowl curve into a luminous smile as she lifted her face from Rickon’s hair. Her eyes held Jaime’s and he smiled, too.

 _My wench,_ he thought, _my wench._ _What other wonders have you hidden from me?_

Through the thunder of claps and shouts, Jaime heard, “Halt!”

He cocked his ear to the closed door.

Jaime returned to the Great Hall of Winterfell at once. He heard a guard call out, “Who goes there?”

Jaime spun and pushed through the doors. As he slipped into the dark folds of the night, on each side of the arches, five guards stood as sentinels outside the Great Hall, the moon in full light glancing off ten spears. At first, Jaime did not see the hulking form moving across the yard. The moon seemed to make it larger and it made strange, huffing noises as it advanced. The guards lowered their spears and Jaime unleashed Lion’s Heart.

“Don’t hurt me, please!” chirped a voice. “It is only I, Maester Tarly!”

“Show yourself, Maester Tarly!” shouted Jaime.

The fat maester came into a circle of torches, sweat streaming down his round face. He gulped air as if he ran miles. “Ser Jaime,” he finally panted. “Good. You are here. One less person I need find.”

“What in the Seven Hells is the matter, Maester Tarly? Princess Arya-,”

“Is fine and waiting in my library.” Maester Tarly waddled forward and spoke to one of the guards. “ _Quietly_ inform King Jon he is needed in my library. Go, Ser. _Now_!”

The soldier turned on his heel and fled through the door.

Jaime Lannister pulled Maester Tarly into the deep shadows, leaning close to whisper in his ear. The man smelled of strange spices and leather tomes. “What the _devils_ is happening, Tarly?”

Jaime heard the maester swallow to steady his breath. “Summer, Bran’s wolf, found something in the Wolf’s Wood.”

A frisson of fear slid cold fingers down Jaime’s spine. “What did the beast find in the Wolf’s Wood?”

He heard Maester Tarly swallow again. “Two hands, Ser Jaime. Summer found…two _hands_.”

Though his face hid in the shadows, Jaime squinted at the fat maester. “ _Two hands_?” he repeated.

“Yes,” answered Maester Tarly. “They belong to White Walkers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again, Isola_Caramella, for the beta read, your wonderful suggestions and insightful feedback! And not to mention those gentle nudges when it's been too long, lol!
> 
> *I am no Tolkien (duh!) and cut Brienne's song to the opening lines. I tried to convey the song through descriptions; hope it worked (Jaime shrug)!  
> *Shout out to Prince (I will forever miss you!) as I listened to "Another Lonely Christmas" over and over (and over) to try and capture the feeling of longing and loss in song.  
> *Shout out to Mimi Parker of the band Low (her song "Tonight", man), Brittany Howard of the Alabama Shakes ("Sound and CULL-ah!") and Neko Case ("Star Witness")for being the inspiration for how Brienne's voice sounded in my head...if their three voices together as one make any sense...hey, that's what I heard (Jaime shrug)...
> 
> Thank you to everyone taking time to read the chapters!


	14. Sunstar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Maester Tarly and Nusu Nyo do their homework and Jaime and Brienne explode...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So again I went on a writing jag and wrote 50 pages in over a few nights earlier in the month. Then life interfered with editing and well, here we are, more than a month since my last update. Chapter 15 should arrive quicker though, hopefully by the end of this week. Thanks for all the comments and encouragement, especially when it gets rough!

Jaime could not believe what his eyes saw inching up the sides of the locked glass box.

A hand.

Without an arm, a body, a brain.

It crawled across the smooth, clear surface of the box like a pale spider, the peeling nails and blunt fingertips black as a bottomless well at midnight.

For a moment, the hand stopped its endless searching and Jaime thought perhaps it would finally cease moving forever.

But then it began again, creeping from one side of the box to the other.

Jaime shook his head, taking a step back from the wight’s hand---and bumped into the solid wall of Brienne to Tarth. She slid her overlarge boot from beneath his heel.

“My apologies, my lady,” he said, edging to the side to give her a better view of the specimen.

“None needed, Ser Jaime. I can see the… _evidence_ quite clearly.”

With a smile, Jaime remembered Brienne stood head and shoulders as the tallest person in the room and all of Winterfell.

He turned his eyes back to the broad ironwood table and the remains of two hands wriggling under glass enclosures. _Nusu_ Nyo Zerai and Maester Samwell Tarly looked at their audience from the front of the Maester’s small library.

One of the hands missed two fingers.

Since Summer returned with his prize, Jon Snow sent Stark and Free Folk rangers to scour the Wolfswood for more wights while the light held. At dusk, they returned to the stout, high walls of Winterfell. So far, only a few bands of wights were sighted, easily dispatched with fiery torches and dragonglass daggers. The day after Summer’s discovery, Jon Snow sent and received reports on the Others from the Wall, the Last Hearth, Karhold, Bear Island, Deepwood Mote and the Dreadfort---now held in trust by the faithful Manderley’s---Torrhen’s Square, Moat Cailin, White Harbor and Greywater Watch. All reported, like Winterfell, only light skirmishes with the undead around their sealed keeps.

Prince Brandon Stark would not be fooled.

“This only the breath before plunging into the breach,” he whispered to Jon Snow, Ser Davos and Jaime with wide eyes.

And Jaime, like every soul at Winterfell, waited for the true battle to begin.

Behind the glass cages, _Nusu_ Nyo cleared her throat.

“As I said, last night, Maester Tarly and I made an important discovery, one, which we feel, will be essential to the survival of Winterfell.” She paused to cast her eyes to every face. “And the survival of the world.” Her eyes fell last on Jon Snow. Jaime squinted and furrowed his brow at the red blooming high on the boy’s cheeks. He bit his lip to suppress a grin.

_By these nameless northern gods. I do believe the White Wolf is among Nusu Nyo’s admirers._

He glanced to see if Lady Brienne noticed the boy’s flush but her eyes were trained on the Summer Islander and the portly Maester.

“What do we know of White Walkers or Others or wights, as they are called?” spoke Maester Tarly. “I, for one, survived the Battle of the Fist of the First Men and know more of these fell beasts than will last me a thousand lifetimes.” Even in the full light of day, behind the stone walls of Winterfell, Samwell Tarly gulped down his fear. “White Walkers are those controlling the wights. Wights are the dead humans claimed by the White Walkers. Revenants, if you will. And regardless if they White Walkers of wights, I know you cannot kill them with forged steel.” Gendry Waters shifted and crossed his bare, flexed arms as some eyes in the room turned to him. “With castle forged steel, as Master Waters so skillfully crafts, you can slow the wights by chopping off their limbs. But this will not _kill_ them, only stop them, slow them down. The same can be said for White Walkers.” He swallowed again. “If … _if_ you can get close enough to one and somehow survive. But there are some things that will kill both White Walkers and their wights.” He gave a tremulous smile, wobbling his jowls. “The first is dragon fire.” His smile slipped. “But of course, we have no dragons in the north, unless, Ser Davos, there is word from Kings-,”

Davos Seaworth shook his head and Maester Tarly’s question died in the silence of the room. “Right. Well. Dragon fire, as I said. The next is simple fire followed by dragonglass and finally, Valyrian steel. But with each, they pose a problem when using them to kill the Others. _Nusu_ Nyo?”

“Indeed, Maester Tarly,” she lilted. “First, fire kills them, truly. However, that is to say, _eventually_.”

“ _Eventually?_ ” asked a squinting Davos Seaworth. “I thought fire the ultimate answer in defeating the Others?”

“Yes, Ser Davos, but it proves slow work and they may still inflict much damage as they flail about until dead.” Davos pursed his lips and nodded at the description. “That leaves us with dragonglass and Valyrian steel,” continued the Summer Islander. “But the concern with both weapons is that you must be in close contact with White Walkers and wights to kill them. And of course-,”

“This puts our soldiers at greater risk of death and capture,” finished Brienne of Tarth. Her face burned under the nods of King Jon and Arya Stark and the praise in Jaime’s eyes.

“Indeed, Lady Brienne” smiled Nusu Nyo. “But we have discovered another weapon.” She reached inside her tunic and drew forth a glass vial on a silver chain. She unclasped the small, clear ampoule from a hook and placed it between the glass boxes. Jaime stared at the golden liquid shimmering inside the cylinder. “Sunstar,” she said, spreading dark hands over the container.

“ _Flowers?_ ” scoffed Lord Petyr Baelish. “You purpose to kill _wights_ and _White Walkers_ with… _flowers_ , Nusu Nyo?” Littlefinger gave a barking laugh. “I always knew you Summer Islanders to be a savage, _ridiculous_ lot but this absurd notion to kill wights with blossoms is the most _ridiculous_ utterance ever spoken.”

As one, Jaime and Brienne reached for the steel at their sides.

A knife slipped into Arya’s hand from inside her sleeve.

Maester Tarly moved, waddling around a corner of the table but _Nusu_ Nyo stopped him with a firm hand on the mound of his shoulder.

In a blink, Jon Snow stood chest to chest with Petyr Baelish, the boy grinding his teeth beneath his flexed jaw. He leaned in, whispering to Littlefinger though all heard the cold hiss of his voice. “Such unkindness will not be tolerated here, Lord Baelish. You will apologize to _Nusu_ Nyo--- _now_ \--- for that vile and unworthy remark.” Jon paused to curl his lip in a tight sneer. “Or you will leave this room---and _Winterfell_.”

“And what of my soldiers, hmm, Your Grace?” smirked Lord Baelish, his eyes glittering into the gray stone gaze of King Jon. “Shall I take my army, too?”

“Yes,” Jon Snow answered, stepping closer. “If that means we will be rid of _you_.”

“And who will be left to defend Winterfell, Your Grace? A few thousand Stark bannermen, some frightened smallfolk and undisciplined wildlings? You need me and my army, Your Grace, as _vile_ and _unworthy_ as I may be.”

With only his broad chest, Jon Snow pushed Petyr Baelish back to a shelf of books against the wall. Petyr’s eyes slipped from the boy’s face though his mouth still tilted in a sneer. “The Others take _you_ and your army, Lord Baelish,” Jon Snow ground from the back of his teeth. “Apologize or expect to spend this very night in the dark cold of the Wolfswood. For we will find a way to survive at Winterfell without your soldiers, as the Starks have survived for a thousand years. But for you, my lord, the Dragons hold the Vale of Arryn. And you have nowhere to run.”

For a long moment, Jaime felt a charge ring round the room as the boy challenged the serpent, Jon’s unblinking eyes on Baelish’s face, Littlefinger’s glinting eyes on the floor. Already Jaime’s mind moved to how they would dispatch of Littlefinger’s headless body and the story told to the Vale commanders about their Lord’s untimely death.

Lion’s Heart inched further up from its shabby sheath, Jaime’s eyes signaling to Princess Arya and Brienne at each of his shoulders.

They both nodded.

Jaime steeled his mind to free the blade, sending it arching through Baelish’s thin neck. But Littlefinger raised his eyes to Jon Snow with a solemn face, all traces of mockery and insolence gone. He turned to the hard eyes and tight fists of _Nusu_ Nyo at the front of the room.

“My apologies, _Nusu_ Nyo. King Jon has so rightly pronounced my vile and unworthy remark against you and your people. Forgive me my ignorant thoughts and wayward tongue, my lady.” He bowed low to Jon Snow. “Your Grace?”

Jon’s eyes never left the man standing before him. “ _Nusu_ Nyo, do you accept Lord Baelish’s apology?”

Nyo’s sloe eyes narrowed to slits. “If only I must, King Jon.”

“You must,” Prince Brandon spoke at once. The woman whipped her head to the boy and he gentled his voice. “You must, my lady.” He swallowed. “Please.”

Bran and Nyo locked gazes for a breath then she nodded. “I accept,” she lilted with a sigh. Bran nodded.

Jon still pinned Petyr Baelish to the bookshelf with his chest and eyes. “The lady accepts your apology, Lord Baelish.”

“So I gratefully heard, Your Grace. Thank you, _Nusu_ Nyo.”

She answered with tight-lipped silence.

“As you were, Lord Baelish,” grit Jon Snow.

Petyr Baelish bowed once more to the King in the North then inched around the king to stand next to a white-faced Princess Sansa.

“ _Nusu_ Nyo,” said Jon Snow, turning from the bookshelf. “Please, my lady. Continue your demonstration.”

She smiled at the boy and Jaime noted another rise of color in the king’s cheeks. “Of course, Your Grace. At once.” Lion’s Heart slid back into its scabbard with a whispered hiss. Nyo cleared her throat and began to speak. “As I said before the _interruption_ ,” her eyes rolled to Lord Baelish then back to the faces in the room, “Sunstar may prove the key to defeating the Others. But not the actual flowers, as so dismissively suggested. We must use the _oil_.” She picked up the vial and held it between her thumb and slim index finger. “Observe closely. Maester Tarly, if you would?”

“Right,” he said, first cutting his eyes to Petyr Baelish. Maester Tarly used a long-handled tong to remove the hand with only two fingers, his wide, sweating face wrinkled in disgust. With the tongs, he held the hand down on the surface of the ironwood table and sawed through a finger with a wicked looking knife. The hand nor the finger bled but both continued to writhe about, like a pale slug and wounded spider. Maester Tarly placed the hand back inside the glass cage.

The severed finger slithered across the table.

“Move back,” he instructed.

They spectators stepped back.

“A little more.”

They slid back a few feet.

“Hodor,” Hodor whimpered.

“It’s alright, Hodor,” Maester Tarly assured the giant. He blinked his owl eyes. “At least, I hope so.”

Jaime Lannister could not stop his eyes flying to Brienne. She caught the look, reddened and shrugged. Maester Tarly retreated a few steps.

Nusu Nyo walked forward, the small cylinder in her dark hands. “I prove quicker,” she drawled.   She removed the dropper from the vial and Jaime recognized the vibrant green and spiced smell.

Sunstar.

But far more potent, more concentrated.

More powerful.

A golden tear shimmered from the dropper, landing on the creeping finger. Nusu Nyo danced back in quick paces.

The finger exploded in a flash of gold sparks. Pieces of the finger skittered across the floor. They did not move, dead at last.

Silence filled the room.

“ _Nusu_ Nyo, Maester Tarly” breathed Sansa Stark, “how did you discover-,”

“Purely by accident, Princess Sansa,” answered the ebon woman. “Through my dream, I knew Sunstar important but did not understand _how_. _Why_. When Prince Bran’s wolf brought the hand, Maester Tarly and I began our experiments.” She glanced at Samwell Tarly.

“Indeed,” he chirped, his grin wide. “First, we dropped blooms on the hand. Still it lived. Next, we ground the petals into a fine dust and sprinkled it over the hand. Still it moved. We tried pouring an infusion over the hand, even steam. Nothing worked.”

“Finally, I remembered my small ampoule of the essence,” spoke _Nusu_ Nyo, stepping forward, “an oil given me by grandmother, _Mwezi_ Nandi, to remind me of her love and of home.” Her smile deepened and Jaime fought to muzzle a yelp of laughter. Jon stood wide-eyed and gaping at the woman before dragging his eyes to the vial.

“I don’t know why you make mock, Ser Jaime,” whispered Arya at his shoulder. “I see the very same look on _your_ face whenever you gaze at Lady Brienne.” Jaime whipped his head to scowl at the girl. She shrugged, her eyes at the front of the room. He looked at Brienne from the corner of his eye standing stolid at his other side. He felt the heat wafting off her face though she looked straight in front of her.

Jaime knew she heard every word.

“Remembering the vial,” Nyo continued, “I dropped a bead of oil on a finger.” She expanded her slender hands. “ _Boom_.”

Jon Snow returned her smile with a nod. “Indeed, _Nusu_ Nyo. And we shall deliver the oil to the enemy in the tips of our arrows, saving our forces from close contact with the Others. How much oil is at hand?”

At his question, both _Nusu_ Nyo and Maester Tarly exchanged glances, the smiles dying on their faces. Maester Tarly angled his eyes to the glass ampoule in Nyo’s hand.

“ _Truly?_ ” Jon gasped, his mouth wide.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Maester Tarly hastened to answer, “but by your leave, Gilly can teach others to make more.”

“How soon? How much?” demanded Ser Davos.

“A few glass jars, perhaps more. The oil is very potent, not much is needed, Ser Davos.”

“How soon?” the Hand asked again.

Samwell Tarly shot anxious eyes to _Nusu_ Nyo. She nodded. “A week, perhaps two. The process must be carefully crafted and the oil extracted under the right time and conditions.”

“The right _time_ ,” sighed Brienne of Tarth. “Now we discover the weakness of relying on Sunstar.”

“But if time is what we need,” spoke Bran, leaning over a table in the corner to support his spine, lift his chest, “then we must need make use of the time before us.” He smiled at the Maid of Tarth. “That is all we can do, my lady.”

She nodded.

“Mistress Gilly is wise in herblore and extraction methods,” said _Nusu_ Nyo, “and she will instruct the women of Winterfell and the healing women of the Free Folk.”

“Then let whatever women needed to commence extracting the oil begin _now_ , _Nusu_ Nyo,” said King Jon. “And let only those in this room speak of the power of Sunstar to defeat our enemy to none but our allies.” He gazed round the room to every eye but fixed on the contrite face of Petyr Baelish.  
“Of course, Your Grace,” Lord Baelish soothed. “Winterfell is my home, at your pleasure, and any enemy attacking the gates is mine enemy, too.”

“That pleases me to hear, Lord Baelish. Still I will post guards at the Glass House doors as added precaution. Now, let us return to our duties as before. And Tarly,” he said, touching the thick, round shoulders of his friend, “I want reports of progress. Daily. Hourly. Always.”

“Of course,” smiled the Maester.

Jon Snow crossed the room to stand in front of _Nusu_ Nyo, his gloved hand over his heart. Her assured gazed was lowered before the gray eyes of the king. “You both have made a great discovery, all because you heeded your dream and brought a few seeds from the Summer Isles.” He bowed low to the ebon beauty, to the _Nusu Zami_ of her people. “ _Zubari_ , _Nusu_ Nyo.” Jon’s hand still covered his heart. “ _Zubari_.”

She lifted her eyes to smile at Jon thanking her in her own tongue. “ _Zubari_ , King Jon,” she returned. Nyo raised her strong shoulder in shrug. “I was called. And I came.”

The King in the North and _Nusu_ Nyo stared at each other for a few blinks of their eyes. Then with a nod, Jon turned to leave. Ser Davos followed the king, and behind the Hand, Sansa Stark and Petyr Baelish. Jaime glanced at Bran, now cradled in the stout columns of Hodor’s arms. The boy’s gaze was trained on Jon’s swirling cape, a kind of sadness brimming from deep within his Tully blue eyes. Bran shook his head at the question in Jaime’s squint, pursing his lips as if stopping the release of certain words. Jaime watched the boy leave the maester’s library and with a nod to Samwell Tarly and _Nusu_ Nyo, Jaime trailed behind, flanked on each shoulder by Brienne and Arya. Hodor bore Bran on swift, long strides, leaving the trio alone.

“Remember to take a few minutes every morning and night to study your primer, Master Gendry,” called Samwell Tarly.

“Everyday, Maester,” returned Gendry. Then behind came the sure steps of the young blacksmith.

“I admire your brother’s courage in defending _Nusu_ Nyo’s honor,” said Jaime, lowering his voice as he turned to Arya. “But still, the easiest thing, of course, is to free Littlefinger’s small head from his smaller body and lie about it later. That way, we keep the army and feed the crows, what ever for them, would be a _slimy_ meal.”

Brienne slid wide eyes to Jaime Lannister.

“You seem quite practiced in calculating the cold blooded murder or a lord, Ser Jaime,” remarked Brienne.

“Indeed,” smirked Arya Stark. “For if I recall, there was mention of my nuncle Edmure’s babe sent to him in a trebuchet if he did not yield Riverrun to the yellow-hearted Freys.” Her gray eyes cut to Jaime. “Though I know it all in poor jest.”

Brienne skittered to a stop, her blue eyes flown even wider. “Never say you made such a threat, Ser Jaime Lannister?”

Jaime stopped and shrugged. “I kept my vow to Lady Catelyn and ended the siege of Riverrun without the shedding of Tully blood. And the wily Blackfish lived to retake his home from the blasted Freys. All in all, I did what needed doing.”

Brienne took a step toward Jaime, cornering him against the wall. Her wide eyes now narrowed as her mouth stretched into a thin line.

Jaime fought to catch his breath.

He could smell her scent, feel the heat of the wench against this bare face. He swallowed as his eyes roamed her face. “Tell me,” she bit out in a fierce whisper, “that you only _bluffed_ , Ser Jaime, that you did not intend to hurl a newly born babe over the castle walls like a stone?”

Jaime gulped again, though now, for a different reason. “Well, what does one expect, Lady Brienne?” he stammered and threw in a shrug. “I grew up at court, at the knee of Tywin Lannister, a man who never met a threat he could not use.”

Her eyes now scanned his beard, her mouth and eyes softening as she stared at Jaime’s lips. “What a _wicked_ thing to do, Jaime Lannister,” she breathed, “and well you know it.”

Her eyes did not move from his mouth. Jaime found he could not speak.

Then she blinked, stepping back with a scowl and turned away. She left him at the wall, staring at the line of her broad shoulders.

“I kept my vows, played my part,” he called to her. She shook her head without turning to face him. Jaime pushed away from the wall and followed her down the hall to where Arya and Gendry waited. He found words again, now no longer held captive by sapphire eyes rimmed in long, golden lashes. “We must all play our part, Lady Brienne.” His lowered voiced sounded normal again, the drawl returning with a sneer. “That goes for good Lord Baelish, too, though the finest mummer in Westeros could not play the serpent with more skill than Littlefinger.” His smirk deepened. “He is truly an artist of great renown”. He walked now at Brienne’s side though her eyes trained on the long hall.  

“I should be careful, if I was Jon,” whispered Arya, “for _some_ of my brother Robb’s men did not love his Volanti bride.”

“And surely, the snake would use any prejudice to his advantage,” muttered Jaime.

“Indeed,” mumbled Brienne.

“Well, can you blame the king?” asked Gendry from the rear. “I heard Maester Tarly talking to Mistress Gilly. Apparently, _Nusu_ Nyo is good at everything, just like King Jon!” A twinkle lit his voice. “And then Maester Tarly japed, ‘And _almost_ as pretty!’”

Arya stopped and whirled on Gendry. “Do _you_ think she’s pretty?”

Gendry bumped into her, squinting his eyes. “What, are you blind, milady? Of course I do. Don’t you?”

“That’s not the _point_ , Gendry Waters,” Arya growled. “ _1_ am not an unattached man.”

“So I’ve noticed,” he answered, his voice low in this throat. “And as it happens, milady,” he whispered, “I’m not unattached, neither. Not any more. Not ever again.”

Jaime and Brienne walked a few paces ahead, giving the Princess of Winterfell and the blacksmith space to have their silly argument, make their peace, as the two youths did for them moments before. Jaime never turned around. Then, after a few breaths of silence followed by a soft mewling sound he bellowed, “Come along, Simply Arya! Master Waters! There is still light and we are needed in the training yard!”

Gendry’s strong steps rang against the wood floors. Arya hurried beside him, her boots quiet. “No need to yell!” she answered, sounding as if she ran a few hundred miles instead of walking only a few feet. Jaime noted their bright eyes, flushed lips. Arya smoothed down the mussed strands at the back of her head, as if a large hand snaked through her straight, dark hair, grazing her pale scalp. Now the two youths walked in front of Jaime and Brienne, arguing about something once more. A quick glimpse told Jaime that Brienne fought back a smile, too. Once more in the yard, Jaime and Brienne watched Arya and Gendry walk to the training yard. The two sworn swords finally released their smiles.

“Robert and Ned always wanted their children joined,” Jaime mused. “And here they are and the very image of both.” His smile widened across his face. “It seems love has come to Winterfell.” He turned to Brienne, grinning.

Her smile was gone, her full mouth pulled taut, a thin, sharp line. “Indeed,” Brienne murmured. “And everyone must play their part. Good day, Ser Jaime.”

She would not meet his eyes.

Jaime swallowed. “Yes. Good day, Lady-,”

But before he could finish, Brienne strode from Jaime Lannister.

Her name, as always, stayed quiet in his thoughts.

 

************************************************************************

Jaime suppressed a mighty yawn with the flare of his nostrils.

He agreed with Brynden Tully.

A siege _was_ deadly dull.

He was restless and bored and tired of following the same circle of conversation in the king’s solar. And there proved another reality he need face.

 _I have grown old_ , he lamented, missing the sleep he lost to patrolling the battlements these past nights.

But he must witness the power of Sunstar.

Now that Winterfell’s wall stood fully repaired, Jon Snow ordered scouts not to engage the wights if possible but only to report findings from their ranging.

The first night, from high atop the battlements, the undead could be heard growling and shambling to the gates.

And from the heights, a fresh, herbal scent blew on the wind as the archers awaited their orders. Any fear or despair seemed to float away on the chill breeze, the essence filling all with hope.

Dressed in a black plastron of the dark new moon, _Nusu_ Nyo watched the wights draw closer.

“Nock!” she called.

Jaime stood next to Brienne and watched as Rickon Stark fit his arrow to the bow’s strings.

The wights shuffled further into the field. Jaime heard their snarling moans.

“Draw!” _Nusu_ Nyo ordered.

Jaime heard the pull of the boy’s strings. His eye, arm, hand did not waver as his chest lifted and lowered in slow, measured breaths.

The wights came closer, almost to Winterfell’s sealed and barred gate.

“ ** _LOOSE_**!”

A hundred arrows whizzed through the air.

Jaime heard their points find and pass through flesh, saw them stagger the wights back from the impact.

Then, almost a hundred golden sparks burst across the field, limbs and heads blown over the dying grasses.

Never to move again.

A cheer went up along the battlements.

 _Nusu_ Nyo turned and flashed a smile to Jon Snow.

On their knees, soldiers dipped arrowheads in clay urns on the stone walkways and handed them to the waiting archers.  
With a nod from the King, _Nusu_ Nyo continued her orders to nock, draw, loose arrows until dawn. Meera Reed could be heard ordering her archers from the other side of the heights. By the time they finished, half the oil shimmered in the pots. Jaime went to bed, heartened by the uplifting smell of Sunstar and sight of dead wights littered across the fields.

Now, after four straight nights, Jaime stumbled into his furs as soon as the light crept from pitch to gray. Servants and soldiers went into the fields, Jon Snow, Davos Seaworth and Samwell Tarly beside them. The king and his advisors inspected the remains of the wights as the others gathered the dead for burning and salvaged whatever arrows still intact.

This morning, Jaime slipped into troubled sleep, noting more and more wights scattered over the grounds, the oil a thin layer at the bottom of the pots.

Jaime stifled another yawn and blinked the grit from his eyes.

“Still no word from Kingslanding, Ser Davos?” inquired Petyr Baelish.

“No, Lord Petyr, though we have ravens from all northern strongholds and keeps.” His gray eyes slid to Meera Reed. “Though not, as King Jon informed Lady Meera, from Greywater Watch.” The girl cast her red-rimmed eyes at the long table in the King’s solar and said nothing. Beside her, Bran clamped down on the teeth in the back of his rigid jaw.

“What do they report?” asked Sansa Stark.

“They report the same news as Winterfell: the wights grow in numbers each night, though our allies not blessed with stores of Sunstar to halt the advancement of our enemy. Most use fiery arrows and the assembly of arrows, bows and strings has more than doubled. Some keeps witnessed their first close fighting with the wights, though some have dragonglass but most do not.” His eyes grew hard as stone. “It is grim reading, Princess Sansa.”

“And still no word of my father,” spoke Meera, to the table.

Bran only blinked, his long lashes fluttering, and said nothing.

“Any word from my nuncle Brynden Tully?” asked Arya of the Hand.

“Yes, Princess Arya, some good news at last. It appears many in House Frey are dead or disappearing and never seen again. The Twins are in a shamble. As for Riverrun, Ser Brynden reports some encounters with the wights but have not faced the numbers seen in the north.”

“For now,” murmured Bran. Meera lifted her eyes to glare at the boy but when he would not meet her gaze, she returned her eyes to the table.

“How long can our allies hold against them?” asked Jaime.

Ser Davos shrugged his plain brown mantle higher on one shoulder. “In some places, a few months. In some others, perhaps a few years. It is places like White Harbor, a small city, really, that I hold my greatest fear. Lord Manderley’s castle is large, yes, but can he keep and protect all his people behind their stout walls?”

“Though no wall more stout than Lord Wyman’s arse,” sniggered Petyr Baelish.

Jon shot him a quelling look and Littlefinger’s giggle died in this pointed beard.

“What of the Sunstar’s production?” asked Rickon Stark. Since proving his uncanny skill of finding his target, his king and brother pronounced him a man grown and invited him to the daily council meetings.

 _Nusu_ Nyo tilted her head with a raise of her eyebrows. “As for this, what will happen, will happen, Prince Rickon. Mistress Gilly and the women are hard at work though the drying and extraction takes time. We only a few inches left from last night. I pray the Bright One blesses us with more for this evening’s battle.”

Jon’s eyes lingered on _Nyo_ Zerai before he turned to young Rickon. “This is why we need her dragons, Rickon.   Yet still, our ravens go unanswered.” He grimaced, as if in pain. “And we are running out of time, out of luck. Soon, we may need to meet the cold ones on the battlefield.”

“And we still haven’t seen the White Walkers,” muttered Samwell Tarly.

Jaime looked round the room, saw the drooping heads, white knuckles, blanched faces. He listened to the bleak report and beneath it, the fear. He sat straighter in his chair.

The answer struck him like a brick across the forehead.

He was at his best when fucking or fighting.

Jaime flicked his eyes to Brienne.

_If I cannot have one, perhaps the other…_

“I will go.”

All eyes and craned necks whipped or lifted to Jaime Lannister.

“I will leave Winterfell at first light, taking a small contingent of Stark men to White Harbor where we make sail for King’s Landing.” He swallowed, holding every gaze except the bluest eyes widened with shock. “I will beg for the Queen’s mercy and plead that she fly her dragons north.”

“ ** _NO_**!”  Now all eyes flew to Brienne of Tarth. Her cheeks broiled under their gazes but she continued, her voice steady and strong. “What you propose is _foolish_ , Ser Jaime. Daenerys Targaryen will take your head, on _sight_ , if you have no one in your company to plead your innocence, champion your cause. And we are surrounded by _wights_ yet you declare-,”

Jaime scoffed, cutting short her words. “ _Foolish_ , you say? _My_ plan is no more foolish than you _parading_ through a Lannister camp as a Stark sworn sword, my lady. And the Dragon can as easily take my head here or in King’s Landing. It matters not, whether I live or die. What matters most is that she fly her dragons north, to Winterfell.”

Brienne glared at him in silence. Jaime ignored her narrowed eyes and thinned lips. He turned to King Jon.

“As I said, Snow, this plan could work. All you need do is send word to White-,”

“My appearance in your camp was different, Ser Jaime,” Brienne’s voice rang out, “and well you know it.”

“ _Really_?” he sneered into a laugh. “How is a lone Wolf among Lions any less foolish than my proposal, Lady Brienne?”

“Well, for one, Ser Jaime, I was not beset by wights and White Walkers. And a woman with three dragons did not wish me dead.”

“And she knew you would not harm her,” chimed Arya. “She knew you could never harm your friend, the Maid of Tarth.”

Brienne slid her eyes to Arya, then back to Jaime. Her face burned as if fevered but she spoke once more, her voice quiet. “This is _foolish_ , Ser Jaime. Rash and foolish.”

Petyr Baelish hid his smirk behind his little hand.

Silence filled the room.

Jaime’s scowl deepened and he curled his lips. He angled his head to Jon Snow. “The boy’s ravens go unanswered. Daenerys Targaryen’s Hand is my _brother_. Perhaps I may sway Tyrion to our cause. But if we sit and do nothing, we _die_.”

“If you leave these walls, you will never glimpse White Harbor!”

“Brienne-,”

“Then I go with you-,”

“ ** _NO!_** ” Jaime’s eyes flew wide. “You will stay here, to guard and protect Winterfell!”

“I am coming with you, Ser Jaime.” Brienne’s voice lowered further to a rumbling growl. “If indeed you insist on this foolish plan. And I am _not_ yours to command.”

Jaime’s chair squeaked over the floors as he shot to his feet. “Lady Brienne, you _will_ stay here,” he hissed, his own voice a whisper, “ and guard and protect Winterfell.”

Brienne stood from sitting to face him. “If you repeat yourself, Ser Jaime, then so must I. I am coming with you. And I am _not_ yours to command.”

They stared across the long table, hands gripping the roaring lions on the matching pommels at their hips. Jaime’s face flashed from red to purple to white, his nose flaring, his lips working silent oaths while Brienne held her mottled face in a mask. Jaime opened his mouth as if to shout but Bran cut short his words.

“You are needed _here_ , Ser Jaime, Brienne of Tarth. Your swords wielded here, at Winterfell.” The boy’s voice brooked not argument, no questions. “Together.”

Jon Snow put the full weight of his gaze on Jaime Lannister. “Lord Manderley reports the Krakens and the Spears of Dorne hold the seas, Ser Jaime, for Daenerys Targaryen, though they do not raid nor sack the keeps. Not yet. Our brother has the right of it, gallant though-,”

“Rash, more than like, ” muttered Brienne.

“Your plan may be,” finished Jon, with a sharp cut of his eyes to the lady. “Your strength is needed here, to strengthen us. I do not give you leave to go, _Commander_ Lannister.” He swiveled his eyes to Lady Brienne. “Nor you, _Commander_ Tarth. You may sit, both of you. For I did not grant either of you leave to stand.”

Brienne sat at once, with a dip of her head. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but are you certain you want me to… _command_? I am not a leader. I never wanted to be…a _leader_.” Her face blazed, a bright light lifting her eyes.

Jon smiled at Lady Brienne. “Yes, I am certain, my lady. You have trained my people well, better than even imagined. Now, you must lead them to victory.”

Jaime still stood from his seat and turned his eyes fully to the boy. This was not Joffrey, all wicked gleam glinting from his green eyes as he ordered men and women to die, the Game of Thrones naught but a sport for his amusement. Jon returned Jaime’s gaze, did not shrink under the old knight’s careful measuring. Jon’s was the long face of the Starks a thousand years before, the same face carved deep in the white wood of their weirwood tree.

The boy did not blink nor repeat his command.

Winter was here.

_And in its winds, the face of a king._

“ _Commander_?” Jaime scoffed. “Understand that white cloak soiled me, boy. I do not want another.”

“I am not giving you a _cloak_ , Ser Jaime, in command of my army. I am giving us our _futures_. You agreed to lead my soldiers. I hold you to this agreement. I hold you to your… _honor_.”

“My _honor_ , boy?”

Jon nodded, a slow rocking of his head.

Jaime snorted. _My honor_... _oh_ , w _ell played, little kingly shit_ …

Jaime never took his eyes from the boy and sat without another word.

At last Jon blinked as he turned to Davos Seaworth. “What other news, my Lord Hand?”

Jon’s voice carried strong across the broad table, as if his new commanders did not just come to blows in his warm solar.

The Stormlander’s eyes settled with sadness on Meera Reed. “Nothing more, Your Grace.”

“Perhaps he yet lives, Lady Meera,” said King Jon , his voice gentle.   “Perhaps the raven lost.”

“Or perhaps he is dead, Your Grace. Or worse yet, a wight.” She turned on Brandon Stark with a snarl. “Why will you not say? Why will you not speak to me of my lord father?”

“Meera, please!” Bran pleaded. “I explained-,”

“ ** _NONSENSE!_** ” she screamed, launching from her seat. “He is my lord _father_ , Bran, all that I have left of my lady mother and Jojen!”

“Meera, please! If I could say, I would! But-,”

“Instead, you leave me to wonder! To worry!” She turned from the table, as if to leave.

“Lady Meera, a moment?” said King Jon. “Understandably, you are overwrought with worry for your father. And believe me, my lady, I know the feeling of knowing too much and knowing too little and knowing you have no power to help those you love.” The girl began to weep then, filling the room with her soft sobs.

“Hodor,” Hodor snuffled. “Hodor.”

Jon stared at the girl, breaking through her cries. “I give you leave, on this night, Lady Meera, to visit the Heart Tree or the sept or perhaps Maester Tarly can prepare for you a draught to still your mind, ease your heart. Perhaps-,”

“No, King Jon,” she said, lifting her brimming eyes. She swallowed hard the anguish in her throat. “The best way to still my mind and ease my worry is it put an arrow through every beast on that gods-damned field. I will stand at the battlements this very night and do my duty in my lord father’s name.”

Jaime glimpsed the old kings in the boy’s face once more. Jon nodded to Lady Meera. “So be it. _Commander_ Reed.” The girl nodded in return, her red eyes hot but dry. “We need your arrows, aye, and truly. And yours as well, _Commander_ Zerai,” he said, turning to _Nusu_ Nyo. He warmed at the faint smile of the Summer Islander.

“We serve with honor, King Jon,” lilted Nyo Zerai.

“By your leave, I will eat and rest now, King Jon,” said Meera Reed, her voice cracking.

“By my leave, Lady Meera.”

The girl left the room without a glance at Brandon Stark.

Petyr Baelish spoke into the silence as Meera Reed slipped through the door. “Perhaps I should send a squad of Vale soldiers to search for Howland Reed and escort him to the safety of Winterfell, Your Grace?” He gave a thin smile. “If yet lives.”

“If I may, King Jon?” asked Maester Tarly. Jon waved his hand, yielding the floor. “That may prove unwise, Lord Baelish” Maester Tarly reasoned. “The north is vast, much of it now under deep snow and if Lord Reed has fled Greywater Watch, the Others may hunt him and his men, intent on absorbing them into their fell army---that is to say, if the cold doesn’t kill them, first.”

“Indeed,” muttered Jon. “And while a generous offer, we do not know what has truly transpired in the Neck. I cannot risk any men or women lost or captured in an effort to search for answers or Howland Reed.”

Littlefinger inclined his head. “As you wish, Your Grace. I live to serve.”

Jaime tried not to roll his eyes at the courtier’s fawning. _You live to lie, Lord Baelish._

Jon turned to all the faces gathered along his table. “Lady Meera proves a brave template for how we must do our duty. We will defeat our enemy in the name of those we love, in taking care to nourish and rest our body and mind for tonight’s battle. The wights’ numbers grow every evening.” The boy held each face. “We must stay ready.” He stood from his high seat and all but Jaime and Bran stood with him. “As you were.”

All left the room. Brienne met Jaime with a withering glare, a slow shake of her head. He glared in return, watching her stride from the chamber. When she ducked beneath the transom, Jaime stood and could not miss the look Jon passed over the strong back and legs of _Nusu_ Nyo. Jon’s face reddened at Jaime’s cocked brow but he did not blink. Jaime smiled. At this Jon’s face softened, at last.

“We are lucky to have Commander Zerai at Winterfell, General Lannister.”

“Indeed, we are,” drawled Jaime, pushing in his chair. “And even luckier for _you_ , one so easy on your eyes.” Jon looked away with a grin.

Jaime glanced at Brandon Stark with a soft smile. “Give her time, Prince Bran.”

Bran lifted his gaze from the table, anger flashing in his eyes. Jaime gaped at the change for he never witnessed the boy so wroth. “Meera does not want _time_ , Ser Jaime,” Bran spat.   “She wants answers.” His eyes slipped down once more, his voice a whisper. “And that, I cannot give.”


	15. Sunfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Sunfire comes to Winterfell...

The hours after the King’s council slid past Jaime, all of them spent in anger at the daring insolence of a blue-eyed wench.

After  _instructing_  soldiers a little harder than necessary in the training yards, he ate a quick meal, stabbing at his meat and potatoes with such violence and muttering that those seated around him picked up their platters and moved three tables away.  Next, he quarreled with the Master of Arrows over how many needed for this evening’s battle then snapped at Mistress Gilly as she mopped her flushed face in the special wing of the kitchens used to infuse the dried sunstars in oil.  Even the bright smell did little to pacify his wroth though Jaime knew it time to escape the steam filled room when a few spear wives began grumbling in their own tongue and throwing him dark looks.

Jaime stalked through the dying light in the yard and bounded the stairs of the Guest House.  He prepared to enter his room for a nap if he could find rest, clean Lion’s Heart, then don his new armor for the night’s battle.  Behind him, Pod scampered up the steps.  Jaime turned with a scowl, parting his lips to give a cutting remark to Brienne’s cheerful squire.

Brienne’s door wrenched open.

“Jaime Lannister!” she bellowed against the walls.  “That was a stupid suggestion before the king.”  Her voice lowered to a rough rumble through the long hall.  “Even for  _you_.”

Jaime stared wide then slit eyes at the insult, closing his mouth to grind his teeth.

“Shall I return later to assist you in donning your armor, my lady?” squealed Pod as he turned and fled down the stairs.

“Yes, Pod!” shouted Jaime.  “Return later!”  His voice dropped to a brittle whisper.  “If I do not  _murder_  your lady first.” 

Jaime crossed the corridor in long strides, shaking the floor with the force of his steps.  He reached Brienne’s door, glared into her narrowed eyes.

She slammed the door closed in his face.

Jaime gasped, his mouth hanging open in shock.  His anger almost blinded him.

“ _Wench_!” he roared, shoving the door open with his broad shoulder.

Brienne stood in the middle of the room, bouncing on the balls of her feet as if to pounce.

It took him but a moment to make his decision.

He crossed the threshold and shut the door with a frame shaking push.

He turned once more to face Brienne of Tarth and the blue blaze of her eyes.

“I did not give you leave to enter my chamber, Ser Jaime,” she hissed.

“And I did not give you leave to insult my intelligence,  _Commander_  Tarth.”

The new title startled her into a quick silence.  “Then why would you suggest something so  _foolish_?”

Jaime took another step into her room, willed his eyes to not search every corner for traces of the Maid.  “I was  _trying_  for a way to protect us, beyond these endless conversations about aurouch’s shit we already know.”  He took another step though Brienne stood her ground.  “I am a man of action, Brienne,.  I… _act_.” He remembered Cersei once saying the same over their dead father’s body, venom almost choking the whispered words from her snarling mouth.  He remembered thick cauldrons of incense trying to cloak the smell of their father’s rot in the heavy, spiced scent.  Jaime remembered hating Tywin and Tyrion and his twin as he gazed into the stones covering their father’s closed eyes, feeling Cersei’s words flail away bits of his soul with every hiss of her breath.

But he hated none more than himself. 

Jaime watched Brienne shake her head, pulling him away from the Sept of Baelor and the stench and into the warmth of the room. 

Of her eyes. 

“No, Jaime,” she said.  “It is one thing to  _act_  and another to act  _foolishly_.  What if King Jon agreed to let you go, carry out your plan?”

“Then at first light, I would ride beyond the walls of Winterfell, striking for White Harbor.”

She flexed her square jaw.  “And I, with you.”

“No-,”

“Yes, Jaime Lannister.”  With a step she closed the distance between the two commanders.  “ _Yes._   For whatever reason, we are meant to do what we must do… _together_.”

Jaime looked about the neat room, feeling Brienne’s ordered and exacting presence, smelling her unique scent of leather and oil and brisk lavender everywhere he turned.  On the table his eyes glanced on a book on military strategies, the diagrams for attacks, retreats drawn over the parchment.  He tilted his mouth in a smile to keep silent a yelping laugh. 

_Of course she studies while I blunder into folly!  Oh, you old fool.  When will you ever learn?_

His eyes slid to her bed, fixed on the ironwood frame so much smaller than his own.  Brienne, nude and warm and curled into a tight ball, flashed in his mind.  His hand on her shoulder, turning her toward him, kissing her awake…  He swallowed, feeling his cock stir.  “Forgive my intrusion, my lady,” he stammered, turning toward the door.  “I should leave you to your preparations.”

“It near tore our hearts from us,” she called to him, “from me, from Arya, from Bran.  To hear you say you cared not if you lived or died.”

He stopped and half turned to face her.  “Brienne, I said it because it is true.  I killed her father, put my sword through his hunched back.  Why wouldn’t she want me dead?  And if she brings dragons to stop the wights, what is my death compared with saving the realm?”

“So you would martyr yourself?”

“Brienne-,”

“I never thought you a religious man.”

“ _Careful_ ,  _wench_ -,” he growled, raising his brows.

“There is deep  _power_  in those two Starks that love you and not the Stranger himself could snatch you from them.  They will protect you.”

“Please-,”

“What about  _us_ , Jaime?  Why will you not heed Prince Brandon’s warning about… _us_?  Why will you not believe him?”

“Brienne-,”

“Why?”

“I told you-,”

“Of your fears.  You spoke to me of your  _fears_ , Jaime.  Brandon speaks of hope.  Of… _love_.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes, taking in the hard set of her face.  “You have grown bolder with your new title, Brienne of Tarth.”

“One of us must, Jaime Lannister,” she countered, all pursed lips, crossed arms.  “Truly bold, not just foolish.  And my question still goes unanswered.  Why will you not believe him?”  

“Brienne, please,” he sighed.  “I do not want to hurt you-,”  
“No.”  She uncrossed her arms to point a finger at his chest.  “Now that,  _that_  is a  _lie_.  You do not want to  _be_  hurt.  Don’t you know I would never hurt you, Jaime?   _Never_.”  Brienne opened and closed her mouth like a gaping fish, twisting those large hands into a puzzle as she searched his face.  She took a deep breath.  When Jaime saw her cheeks suddenly broil, he knew what she would say before she said it.

“I l-l-,”

“I know,” he said, his voice soft, “and I have done terrible things for the sake of that word, my lady.”  Her eyes always drew his and he stared at them, now.  “Aye, and you would, too.  I know you, Brienne.  You would have fought me,  _killed_  me to protect Sansa and her kin, then fallen on your own sword.  And I would not risk-,”

She glared at him, cutting off his words.  “Do not  _dare_  act as though pushing me away is a mercy.”  She took a step toward him and Jaime fought the urge to retreat.  “I do not want your  _mercy_ , Jaime Lannister.  I want your  _love_.”

“Brienne, you do not know what you are asking-,”

“No, it is  _you_  that do not know what you are saying.  You speak to me of truth but refuse to admit the truth to yourself.  You are afraid to let yourself love again, to-,”

He closed the distance between them in one stride.  “So what if I am!” he roared.  She held her ground, a stone wall in the flames of his anger.  “You would, too, if you have seen…if you have done…,” he bit off the words with a growl, fighting to control his rage, struggling with his desire to grab her and shake her or grab her and tumble her atop the rich furs covering her bed. 

She waited and watched him with wide eyes.  Her eyes slipped to his mouth.  “Jaime,” she breathed, her voice like a feather across his ears.  “That was a different time and you a different man.  Please.”  She held up a trembling hand, reached for him.  “Stop punishing yourself.  Put away the past.  Let me -,”

“No.”  He inched around her, placing himself deeper inside her room.  Now Brienne stood closer to the door. 

She dropped her hand, a fist at her side.  “Jaime-,”

“ _Never_.  Never again.”

“So you would have me walk through what is left of his world without  _you_ , the man I love?”

He scoffed.  “You would  _want_ to walk through this world with the man who helped destroy it?  You wish to love  _me_ , the man harbored here by the Starks, the same man that killed the rightful king, adding insult to the injury of the north in open rebellion?   _Yes_ , Brienne.  I would have you walk on without me.  Live your life, find another.  And leave me-,”

“To your self pity,” she spat.  “You sound worse than when we captured in the Riverlands except now, no sniveling tears.”  He knew from her hard eyes that those words found their mark.  But by the set of her square jaw, they both knew she would not take them back.  Her voice was low, her words slow, deliberate when she spoke again.  “You speak truly, Ser Jaime.   I once vowed I could never love a man who was a craven, who could not best me in battle.  Well, you are a coward and I still unbeaten.  Perhaps you  _are_  unworthy of my love.  The Wolves have forgiven you, lackwit fool.  When will you forgive yourself?”

He swallowed, hard, and gave a shake of his head.  “Brienne-,”

She raised her hand for silence.  Then with a scalding glare, she turned, a slow arc of her opening the door.  Jaime stood for a moment, watching her, trying to find the words,  _trying_. 

Failing. 

Her face was like pale marble as she stood away from him, in profile.  The hand at her side curled in a fist and Jaime saw her large knuckles gleamed white.  Jaime stared at her hand and he knew he possessed no words she wished to hear that would fill up the canyon of silence between them.   

“As you wish, my lady,” he said, almost a whisper, walking through the open door.  “Until tonight’s battle.”  His voice was steady though his heart hammered and he brushed against her thigh as he passed. 

She made no answer.

Just barely in the hall, the door slammed behind him, giving him a sharp, parting smack on his arse.

 

************************************************************************

 

Jaime stood on the ramparts over the East Gate, stamping warmth back into his cold stiffened toes. 

During the past skirmishes, the wights stumbled from the Wolfswood and Jon Snow ordered the archers to attack from the Hunter’s Gate, hitting their fell marks on the scrubby fields below.  But since the horde of wights grew thicker with each nightfall, King Jon ordered all three gates covered, with soldiers on the ground, just inside the main gates, in case the gates failed.  Davos Seaworth, Gerren Manderley and Adrick Cerwyn lead the soldiers at the three entrances, Gerren and Adrick distant cousins to the great lords of their houses.   Jon commanded every sword unsheathed while the soldiers waited below the quiet, sharp-eyed archers scanning the fields and forest.  Beside Jaime Lannister, Meera Reed sniffed, though Jaime knew not from cold or tears.

 Jaime fixed his eyes on the gray ribbon of the King’s Road beneath the full moon.  The light caught on the roaring lion on his breastplate.  Jaime told Bran the only thing he needed in his armor is that it be forged simple and strong.  Yet on his chest roared a lion, matching the beast on the hilt of his sword.  But the rest of the armor was as Jaime requested: simple, strong but in the turn of light, a glint of rosy gold before fading to gray.  For his right hand, Gendry Waters fashioned a crisscrossing of toughened leather straps to fit his velvet and linen cushioned stump.  And from the center of the straps, a dragonglass dagger shone, a welter of stars seemingly scattered across the black surface.  

Jaine looked to his left and thought he glimpsed a flash of white-blonde hair as Brienne kept watch with Rickon Stark at the Hunter’s Gate.  Jaime knew it only his imagination for the two gates were miles apart in distance.   _But,_ he thought _, in truth, I see her ever where I turn._

Rickon, for his part, proved impressive with a bow and arrow and it seemed only the pulling of a bow and quarrel along his ear could tame his wild nature.  Jon praised the boy and his skill, careful to correct him when needed but heaping encouragement upon his russet curls when a near impossible target hit.  Between Brienne’s firm hand and Jon’s gentle praise, Rickon followed behind The Maid of Tarth and the King in the North like a leaping wolf cub about their knees.  Tonight, Jon gave the boy command of the Hunter’s Gate with only Brienne ranked above.   _Nusu_  Nyo and Jon Snow took command of the Battlement Gate and Jaime wondered, with a crooked smile, if the boy watched her more than he watched for wights.  Earlier that evening, Jon Snow commanded Sansa Stark to lead all the men, women and children unable---or unwilling--- to fight into the darkness of the crypts where provisions of dragonglass and food and water and furs safely stored.  Maester Tarly and Petyr Baelish hid in the crypts with Brandon and a whimpering Hodor.  To Jaime’s disgust, Petyr Baelish had no qualms about being called a craven.

“I know my strengths,” he laughed, “and  _living_  is chief among them.”

Jaime almost bit his tongue in half from not replacing “ _living_ ” with “ _lying_.”

Now, Jaime stood on the ramparts with Meera Reed, the girl’s back and shoulders straight as she scanned the road in silence.  The scent of Sunstar seemed to calm his nerves but did little to warm his toes.

“Here they come,” the girl whispered.  Jaime saw nothing beneath the deep shadows of the moon but the wind carried their snarls and moans.  Soon Jaime noticed the shadows moving.  “Let them draw closer,” the girl commanded, a fierce growl, striding along the wall.  “I want every target hit, every beast blown from here to the Last Hearth!  I want their ears found on Skagos, what remains of their eyes staring up in a garden in Esso!.  I want their heads boiling in the Smoking Sea and their black skulls unearthed in the Shadow Lands!  Fighters of Winterfell!  Do you hear my words?”

“Yes, Commander Reed!” the archers answered in union.

“ **WILL YOU HEED MY WORDS**?”

“ **YES, COMMANDER REED**!”

“Good,” she hissed.  “Now do your duty.  And not one target missed.”

Jaime looked at the girl, her face a mask of stone, of fury.  He nodded, once. Meera Reed returned the nod then turned to stand at the ramparts.  She nocked an arrow handed to her from the crouching soldier at her knees.

“Nock!” she rang out, pointing her arrow down to nock it against the string.

“Draw!”  She pulled the arrow along her right ear.

“ **IN THE NAME OF ALL YOU LOVE** ” she screamed, “ ** _LOOSE_**!”

The arrows curved to the earth, their glistening points slicing through cold, white flesh, frozen blue eyes.  Golden sparks lit up the night like works of fire and Meera Reed nor her command of archers stopped to cheer the explosions.

On and on they loosed their arrows.  Meera did not cease the singing of her bow to stretch her arms, take a swig from a water pouch.  Night turned to morning and morning would soon slide to watery dawn.  Jaime walked the ramparts, imparting commands above and below, Meera lost in her purpose.  A soldier called to him from the left corner of the rampart.

“Commander Lannister.  We may soon be out of sunstar oil.”

Jaime nodded to the men standing by flaming pits.  “Prepare to light them up with fire.  Send word to the other gates, find information of their sunstar stores.  Tell them-,”

“ **FATHER**?   **FATHER**!”

Jaime whipped his head to Meera’s cry.

In a blink, she cast her bow and arrow to the stones, a rope appearing from her belt. With deft fingers, she looped and hooked it around her waist and onto a steel spike.  Jaime opened his mouth to shout the girl’s name but she leaped over the edge, dragonglass daggers in both hands.

Jaime moved then, flying to the ledge of the ramparts.

Meera Reed rappelled along the great walls of Winterfell.  Below her, wights writhed and stumbled along the field.  Before they could reach the girl, she unhooked herself from the rope and with a roar, threw herself into the shambling horde, her black daggers flashing white in the moon’s light.  Jaime wrenched his eyes from Lady Meera to see a small host on horseback, slashing and cutting through the throng as they fought for the gates.

Jaime stampeded anyone in his path as he gained the stairs.

“ **JON**!” he bellowed in the yard, pounding for the Battlement Gate.  “ **JON SNOW**!”  Jon ran from out of the shadows.  Longclaw was unsheathed in his hand.

“I heard, Ser Jaime, from one of Commander Reed’s soldiers,” the boy panted.  “Lady Meera has gone over the wall,” he said to Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knights sword, too, at the ready.  Pod ran at the side of the Stormlander, his cheery face grim as he gripped his sword.  Brienne pulled up short on heavy feet, Arya quiet and nimble as ever beside her.  Gendry’s bare arms flexed as he tossed his glittering war hammer from hand to hand. Through a talent bordering on magic, the boy fused black dragonglass into his weapon.  A large contingent of Stark and Arryn men gathered around them, waiting for words of their King.  “The time has come,” Jon said facing them.  “The time has come to meet our enemy on the fields before Winterfell.  Lady Meera Reed--- _Commander_  Reed---has gone over the wall to aid her father, Howland Reed.  I will take a squad of men to protect them.  Ser Davos,” Jon said turning to his Hand.  “You have command of Winterfell in my absence.  When the archers use the last of the sunstar oil, rain fire upon the dead.  Do not stop.  We need both cover and light from above. Commander Lannister?”

Jaime stepped forward.

“You will come with me.  Commander Tarth will stay here-,”

“No, Your Grace,” Brienne swallowed.  “We are meant to fight together.”

Jon gave her a single nod.  “Very well.  Arya, you will-,”

“I will not,” she growled.  “I am the Shadow Wolf.”

“Arya-,”

“I’m coming, too,” said Gendry Waters.

Jon sighed.  “Fine.  We have not time to argue.  Gendry, you will stay by her side.  The Princess Arya is under your protection.”  Jon ignored Arya’s snort of laughter even as she stretched up to brush her lips against Gendry’s cheek.  “Soldiers of Winterfell, with me.  Open the gates!  I want soldiers on every side, we must not let them pass beyond the yard.  Close the gates as quickly as you can behind us.”

Jaime ran to place himself in Jon’s path.  The boy squinted at Jaime as he skidded to a halt.  “Jon Snow, stop.  Think.  This could be a trap, to draw us out and to let them in.”

Anger blazed in Jon’s words.  “I cannot let them die, Ser Jaime, now that they fight for their lives at our doors!  Howland Reed was loyal to my lord father now I will show loyalty to him and his house.  Open the gates!”

Jaime heard the winches begin to turn the great steel hinges.  Jon stalked forward, Longclaw gleaming deadly in his hand.  The squad followed the king.  Jaime stood looking at their backs.  Brienne’s words returned to him, still scalding, scoffing at his folly.  “ **STOP, FOOL BOY**!” 

All eyes and heads snapped to Jaime Lannister. 

“There is another way to help the Reeds,” he said, his voice firm as he walked toward Jon, “and not leave the castle open for attack. We must go the same way as the lady.”  Jaime lifted his eyes to the ramparts and the shouts above their heads.  “The wights cannot climb, boy.  So we must go  _over_  the wall, not  _through_  it.”

“Commander Lannister is right,” Brienne said though she did not so much as glance in Jaime’s direction.

Jon turned to Davos Seaworth.  “He is right, Your Grace.”  Jon nodded.

“Very well.  Send for more rope!  Over the walls, soldiers of Winterfell!”

Jon gave Jaime a nod, leading the soldiers to the stairs.  They thundered up the steps, rope looping over the spikes. 

Jon was the first one over the edge, grimacing as he glanced below.  Fear fled from the boy’s eyes as he gazed into the eyes of those gathered around him.  Wilding soldiers quickly hooked and looped a sturdy cord of rope around his slim waist.  Arya, Gendry and other soldiers climbed over the edge of the ramparts, soldiers holding the ropes steady as they squatted against the broad stone.  Jon Snow gripped the ropes in both gloved hands.   His voice broadcast along the wall in all directions.  “Rain fire upon them!  Do not stop!  They have not mercy in their dead, blue eyes!  Nor must we!  **FOR WINTERFELL**!”  He pushed away from the wall and dropped, pushing back and forth along the wall.

“ **FOR WINTERFELL**!” the squad announced, following their king to the cold wights below.

Arya waited between stone and air.  She found Jaime’s eyes.  “For Weasel,” she whispered, her nostrils flaring as her mouth curled in a snarl.  Jaime saw light shimmering in her eyes and knew she blinked back tears.

“For Weasel,” he returned. 

And with a nod, a glance at Gendry, Arya was gone.

Gendry followed with a groaning oath.

Jaime stood at the edge of the ramparts and looked at the shadows below.  Some of the Reed men were unhorsed, the wights feeding on their mounts.  Jaime saw Meera Reed still fighting to her father, the men fighting to the gates.  Jon Snow and Arya Stark and Gendry Waters already made short work of the horde as the revenants splintered beneath dragonglass and Valyrian steel.

But more kept coming.

“How will you do this with one hand?” Brienne asked beside him.

“Very carefully,” he scoffed, throwing a leg over the side, wrapping the rope around his left gauntlet.  Brienne held on to another rope and climbed over the wall.

“Jaime-,”

“Don’t worry, wench,” he huffed.  “It is no different than the contraption made for me by Nyo and Maester Tarly.”

“Jaime.”  At the sound of his name, Jaime snapped his eyes to Brienne.  “I told you I would never hurt you and then I…did.”

“Brienne,” he drawled, “we hang hundreds of feet in the air, dangling above a swarm of deadly wights.  This proves a miserable time for an apology.”

“It may be the only time if one of us…both of us-,”

“Survives.”  He ground his teeth.  “And we will.”  Jaime swayed on a gust of wind, looking at the horde below their boots.  He lifted his eyes with a smile.  Brienne smiled, a flash, before curling it into a scowl.

“For the realms of men!” Brienne called, lowering herself on the rope.

“For the realms of men!” Jaime echoed.

_For you…_

Jaime held onto her smile and dropped to the earth.

Lion’s Heart was in his hand, Oathkeeper in Brienne’s fist.

In a breath, their boots on the ground, Brienne stood at his side, Oathkeeper and Lion’s Heart unleashed.

Their swords danced, alive with silver fire.

Together, they cut through the wights. 

As if their swords were pulled by a magnetic force, Jaime and Brienne swirled through the fell beasts, dancing, whirling, arching through the shattering horde, moonlight captured in the edge of their blades.  With his other arm, Jaime sent the wights to their ruin with dragonglass.

Strange words roared from their tongues in unison and the beasts leapt back from the blue and green flames flickering in their livid eyes.

Flaming arrows, like red plumed comets, flew over their heads, hitting their targets who flailed and staggered around the field, still reaching for the blood of the living.  One the edge of hearing, Jaime noted the screams of men as they brushed against a wight and caught fire.  As he fought further from the gate, Jaime saw Gendry smashing in the heads of wights like fire melons, Arya a blurred shadow, a dagger of stars, before the wights shattered.  Meera Reed fought back to back with the Reed bannermen, her white skin splattered and smeared with black blood.  Jaime and Brienne danced to Jon Snow.

“ **TO ME**!” Jon Snow called to all those living.  Longclaw broke apart another wight.  “Fight to me!”

Jaime and Brienne fought at the side of Jon Snow.  If one went low, the other high; if one right, the other left. Back and forth, forth and again, wights shattered, splintered, broke upon their swords.  Jaime glanced behind, turning. 

Copper hair flashed in the light of a falling arrow, though Jaime felt unsure.  Then, a Valryrian steel sword--- _Sunfire?_ \---splintered two wights in one stroke. 

Jaime could not miss the smile, deadly as a manticore, edging from the man’s shaggy beard.

Jaime’s heart burst from his throat.

“ **ADDAM**!”

Addam Marbrand snapped his head to the sound of his name.  “ **SER  JAIME**?!”  With a roar, Jaime’s oldest friend hacked and hewed to stand at his side, his daring pulling the Reed bannermen in a tight circle behind him.  The living women and men fought to the ropes, though some fell, screaming, to fire or the ripping mouths and hands of wights.  Jaime saw the dawn not far off but the wights pressed them almost against the stone walls.

If they turned their backs to climb or be hauled above to the ramparts, Jaime knew they would be pulled to their deaths.

Their only way back to safety was through the gate.

“We can’t climb out of this, boy!” shouted Jaime to Jon Snow, bursting open a wight.  “There are fewer wights now and we must trust to Ser Davos and the men waiting in the yard!”

Another wight bore down on Jon, leaping on the boy’s back, its gaping mouth open for the flesh uncovered at his neck.  Brienne reached out her long arm, driving her steel through the beast’s temple.  It flew to pieces, spraying Jon with cold blood.

“Open the gate!” shouted the King in the North, spitting black phlegm into the snow.  “Open them  ** _NOW_**!”

Above their heads, fiery arrows poured down and Jaime heard shouts to open the gates.

Groaning, the gates opened, slower, it seemed to Jaime, than a thousand years.

Just beyond the crack of the parting gates, Ghost, Shaggy Dog and golden-eyed Summer leapt into the horde of wights, snarling and snapping the revenants in halves.  Davos Seaworth followed the great direwolves with a squad of soldiers, Pod in the van, swords and lances down. 

With roar, they met the wights, pushing them back into the field.  Jaime saw a man fall.  The wights fell upon him, his bloody intestines trailing the maws of their mouths like a garland of steaming sausages.

“Drive them back, drive them back!” shouted Jaime, calling for all forces to push them back into the fields as the gates swung closed. 

The gates closed with a shutter, sealed with a moan deep in the ironwood.

The survivors stood in the yard, panting. 

Jaime turned first to Brienne. 

She stood tall, her blue armor gray in the pale light.  Black blood flecked across her breastplate, her blanched skin, white-blonde hair, looking every long inch a warrior maiden come to life.

At last, Jaime had fought, his blood still singing in his ears with battle.

Now, he wanted to fuck.

He wanted to throw the sturdy, sullen wench down in the gravel yard and take her with a wild lust born only of surviving a pitched battle.

Instead, he raised an eyebrow at her, breathing deeply to calm his straining cock.  If he ever treated her as a guest at a Dothraki wedding, Brienne would no doubt drive Oath Keeper through his neck and Jaime discovered, staring at her fierce face, he liked living.  She squinted at what flamed in his eyes then nodded and shoved Oathkeeper back into its sheath.  Jaime looked at Lion’s Heart. 

The flames on their blades were doused. 

Not even smoke rose from their swords.

 Jaime glanced around the yard.  Pod ran to stand next to Brienne, a smile gracing the boy’s face as he demonstrated how he fought with Ser Davos and the men.  Arya stood in front of Gendry, her sweat-drenched forehead resting against his broad chest as his buried in the top of her head. Jon Snow spoke in an urgent whisper with Ser Davos, his eyes darting to Addam Marbrand and the Reeds.  Some of the soldiers fell to their knees, their foreheads pressing into the gravel.  Some retched up whatever their last meal into the salt and grimy snow.  One man, a Reed man, laughed long into the gray mist of dawn, a high, keening, piercing sound that ended on a wail.  Meera Reed wept into the furs gathered around her father’s shoulders.

“Get the maester!” Jon called, panting and swallowing to find his breath as he stood away from Ser Davos. “Find Maester Tarly and bring him here, _now_!  And find  _Nusu_  Nyo, we have need of her healing skills, as well!   _Go_!”  A soldier ran, crunching quick steps through the yard.

Addam Marbrand rose from his wobbling knees, facing Jaime.  Jaime knew his friend crouched to keep from falling to the ground.  Addam gripped Sunfire in a tight fist at his hip, his chest rising and falling with heaving breaths.  “Well, my Lord Lannister.”  Ser Addam twisted his head with a wry smile.  “That was a close shave.  Though, speaking of shaves, no wonder I failed to recognize you with that golden pelt thrown over your cheeks.”  A slow smile crept across their faces until they almost split from ear to ear.  Laughing, they launched into each other’s arms, embracing, a cracking hug, near lifting each other from their feet.

They pulled apart, taking in the other from head to toes. 

Jaime angled his head at Marbrand’s ruddy beard, his long hair gathered in a copper knot at the nape of his corded neck.  “Seems I’m not the only one grown accustomed to the northern style.  If it hadn’t been for Sunfire, I would never have placed you in the thick of battle, old friend.”

Addam smiled in that easy way forever his yet reminding Jaime of another.  Jaime clapped Addam on the shoulder.  “It is good to see you, healthy and hale!  And now, you must tell me.  How came you here, Lord Marbrand.”

“Yes,” spoke Jon Snow, standing next to Addam Marbrand.  “ _Why_ are you at Winterfell, Addam Marbrand?”

Jaime looked at the hard set of Jon Snow’s mouth, his eyes, knew the edge of battle still lay upon the boy.

 _Careful_ , thought Jaime,  _careful_.  Though he knew not if he meant himself of Jon Snow.

Addam flashed Jon his smile.  “I mean you no harm, Your Grace.”

“It is true, Your Grace,” said Howland Reed, his arm around Lady Meera.  A small, tough, wiry man, his own daughter stood taller than her lord father.  “Though we caught Lord Marbrand and a companion at the Neck, we would never have made it to Winterfell without his sword.”  Lord Howland turned to Meera.  “He saved our lives, little one, when our castle fell to the wights.”

“Greywater Watch fell, Lord Howland?” gasped Brienne.

“Yes, my lady,” he shuddered.  “Somehow, they found us.  Every time we moved the castle, the wights found us.  At last, we were over run.  Myself, the men here, we barely made it out alive.”  He turned sad eyes to Lady Meera.  “Surrounded by water, it went up in flames.  Our home is gone, little lion lizard.”  Lady Meera began to weep.

 Jon stared at the girl and her father, sadness, anger blanketing the young king’s eyes.  Jaime stared at Howland Reed and wondered why the wights barely skirmished with other keeps yet assailed Greywater Watch.  But before he could speak, Ser Davos turned to the Reeds.  “This is grievous news, Lord Howland.  Grievous news, indeed.  We are thankful you escaped with your lives and arrived safely at the gates of Winterfell.  But I am the King’s Hand, Ser Davos Seaworth, and must speak plainly, now.”  The Stormlander turned to face Howland Reed.  “Ser Addam may be a spy, sent here by Lord Tyrion and the Dragons.  You say you captured him and a companion?”  Davos spun his head to Addam Marbrand.  “Name this companion, Ser Addam.”

Addam Marbrand held out a hand and a small, thin man appeared.  A thick pink scar rode closely over the right cheek of his face, puckering the skin around the old wound. His fine black hair hung down his back in a braid.  His white skin was paler than Brienne’s, almost translucent, though his large blue eyes shone with warmth.  He bowed low to Jon Snow then croaked something from deep inside his throat.  The man pointed to himself, gurgling, “Ustan, Ustan, Ustan.”

Jon whipped his head to Addam Marbrand.

“His name is Ustan, as far as I can tell, Your Grace.  I think he was a dicer, a gambler of some sort.  We became fellow travelers when I was set upon by brigands in an alley in White Harbor.”

“Lady trouble?” remarked Jaime with a grin.

“It is not the ladies that trouble me,” Addam drawled.  “It is their men.  Though not this time, Ser Davos.  These brigands meant to rob me, relieve me of sword and purse and surely my head.  Ustan saved my life.  I asked if he could guide me north.”

“You went north after King’s Landing?”  Jaime asked. 

Addam turned to Jaime.  “No, my lord.  I did as you said.  After I opened the gates, I disguised myself and fled to Volantis.”  Addam paused, his eyes on the ground, uncertain.  “But one night, I had…I had an… _unusual_ dream, Ser Jaime.  It unsettled me.  So I returned to Westeros.”

“Opened the gates?” asked Jon Snow, gripping Longclaw.  “What _gates_?   _Where_?”

“Kings Landing,” answered Arya.  “Ser Addam opened the gates, allowing the smallfolk to flee, preventing Danerys Targaryen from burning the city.”

Addam nodded.  “Yes.  Truly.”  He wrinkled his brow.  “How do you know of this?”

Arya tilted her mouth in a smile.  “I was there.”

Addam Marbrand’s squint deepened but before he could speak, Jon Snow scoffed in the silence.  “Your story proves nothing, Ser Addam.  For a pardon a man might do anything asked of him.”

“Yes, but I do not seek a pardon from Danerys Targeryen, Your Grace.  That is not why I am here.  I seek-,”

“Forgive our tardiness, King Jon,” puffed Maester Tarly, kneeling over the wailing man.  The man quieted at the gentle touch of Sam’s plump hand as the maester felt his forehead.  “We both came as soon as able.”

Jaime followed Addams’s wide eyes, suddenly fixed on a point behind Samwell Tarly.

 _Nusu_  Nyo stood behind the maester, her face, her eyes, her hanging mouth a mirror of Addam’s own.

“I seek,” Addam stammered, drifting past Jaime, his words coming slow to his lips.  “I seek golden stars-,”

“And a flaming tree,” gasped Nyo.

“A blade of moonlight-,”

“And a sword of sunfire.”

The whole yard grew quiet as the Westlander and Summer Islander roved their eyes about the other’s face in slow, pausing blinks.  Jon Snow squinted at  _Nusu_  Nyo but she would not break her gaze to look at the king.

“I seek, Your Grace, I dreamed, I dreamed of-,”

“ _You_ ,” Nyo whispered, smiling.

“Yes,” Addam answered, his smile sliding up from his beard, near the same.  “I dreamed...of you.”

Throwing back his golden head, Jaime Lannister barked out a laugh.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.) I made my deadline! I made my deadline! *Does the Cabbage Patch around the room*
> 
> B.) Addam Marbrand: AKA, Mr. Steal Your Girl, lol!
> 
> C.) Thank you for kudos and comments! They keep me going, thinking, trying...Thank you!


	16. The Realms of Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which a king is made in Winterfell...

The sound of a horn carried to Jaime from over the high walls.

His teasing laughter died in his throat, swallowed in a tight gasp.

It was a strange sound, an eerie call, sharp and keening and unbroken, shooting straight to his heart, chilling his blood, like the hungry cry of a ravening beast. Jaime swore he heard fell words on the winds, words delighting in tasting fear, feasting on flesh. Jaime felt his breath quicken.

His eyes snapped to Brienne.

His hand flew to Lion’s Heart.

Brienne unleashed Oathkeeper, her face white, eyes fierce.

From both swords, silver licks of flame blew in the breeze.

Jaime saw the bulging eyes, blanched cheeks on the faces around him and knew he proved not alone in hearing the promise of death in the wailing blast. Maester Samwell Tarly nearly stumbled back to the ground as he stood from kneeling over Lord Howland’s man.

Finally, the shrieking horn trailed to silence.

The twin blades of Oathkeeper and Lion’s Heart turned once more to red and black ripples.

Jon Snow lifted his squinting gaze to the ramparts above their heads, the boy’s long face white as fresh snow. “What is that cry?” he called. “Ser Orwyn, what was that sound?”

Ser Orwyn leaned over the stone ramparts, his sharp eyes darting from the fields to the yard below. “We know not, Your Grace! It sounds far from our gates, somewhere deep in the wood! The wights appear to move toward it, though, my King!”

“Continue to shoot the wights as they gather round our gates or retreat!”

“Aye, Your Grace!” Ser Orwyn’s helmed head disappeared and Jaime could hear the order carried to the waiting archers.

“Jon,” Maester Tarly stammered, moving foward. All eyes turned to him. Tarly swallowed, the gulp heaving his thick chest. “I know that sound. I’ve heard it before, at the Fist of the First Men.” Sam stared at Jon, his plump mouth trembling over his dark beard. “It is a call to the wights. From a…a…White Walker. I fear…I fear…they will come for us.” The trembling seemed to pass through his body. “Tonight.”

“Tonight, Sam?” Jon murmured. “Are you certain?”

Sam wobbled his chins in a nod. “I am, Jon, certain. I hear that sound in my dreams some nights.” He looked on the verge of tears. “In my nightmares, really.”

Jon stared at the maester for a few breaths then flicked his eyes to Ser Davos. The boy’s Hand nodded.

“It is time, Your Grace,” Ser Davos answered, affirming the boy’s question.

Jon turned to Maester Tarly, his voice low. “Sam. I know you are frightened. But I need you to help us by not only tending to everyone injured in aiding Lord Howland and Lady Meer but also in lending me your expert words and advice in addressing the people of Winterfell. Can you help me, Sam?”

Samwell Tarly fought to settle his breath. After a few moments, when his breathing returned to normal, he answered his best friend and king. “Of course, Your Grace. As the maester of Winterfell, I will do what must be done.”

Jon gave Sam a soft smile of thanks. “Ser Davos, assemble everyone, from the sculleries to the lords and ladies, in the Great Hall. We must needs prepare them, warn them of what we face tonight.” Jon paused, his lips curling into a deep scowl. “What evil comes for us and how we will defend against its coming. I will see everyone at twilight.”

“At once, King Jon.” Ser Davos turned, a swirl of his plain, brown mantle, and left to carry out his king’s commands.

Jon beckoned to two soldiers with a twist of his fingers. “Find rooms for Lord Howland and Ser Addam at once.” Jon turned to the other solider. “See to quarters in the barracks for Master Ustan.”

After their salutes, the soldiers ran through the crowd. Ustan trotted at the heels of one man, both heading in the direction of the barracks while the other soldier turned toward the Guest House.

“Am I to understand I will not sleep in a dungeon, Your Grace?” drawled Addam Marbrand.

Jon looked at the Westlander, his gray eyes, grim mouth hard and dark as ironwood. “We need _all_ swords, Ser Addam. I have heard you named a legend, Lord Tywin’s most daring soldier. You have saved Lord Howland’s life. And it would seem, you called here for a reason.” The boy straightened his shoulders, lifting his chest. “So be it. We need your Sunfire in what may prove our most desperate hour.” Jon swept the yard in one glance. “Go now to your rest, your prayers, whatever needed to prepare yourself for the test before us all. In only a few hours, we shall know if we pass the long night with victory or ruin. The Great Hall,” he rang out, “at twilight! Ghost! Shaggydog! Summer! With me!” A path cleared for the young king and the three direwolves, Longclaw gleaming with cold, white light in his fist.

Everyone paused to watch the king leave. Then releasing the deep breath held tight in their chests, they yard became a hive, buzzing with activity. Knowing they not much time, Jaime introduced Ser Addam Marbrand to the curious eyes raking the tall man from mud-caked boots to the stray strands of his long copper hair. “Ser Addam,” he called, “may I present the woman of your dreams, Nusu Nyo Zerai of the Summer Isles, the Half Moon of her people. And may I introduce you to Princess Arya Stark, Prince Rickon Stark, Master Gendry Waters, Maester Samwell Tarly, Podrick Paye---yes, _tha_ t Payne---Lady Meera Reed and,” Jaime paused to clear his throat, “Brienne of Tarth.”

Brienne’s face broiled under Addam’s tilting smile. She gave him a tight nod.

“Ah, yes,” Addam smiled. “Brienne of Tarth. I remember when you rode through the Lannister camp, at the siege of Riverrun.”

“A fact I was just reminding my lady of not so long ago,” drawled Jaime. “Everyone,” continued Jaime through her glare, “please meet Lord Addam Marbrand, my oldest friend.”

Addam bowed low to those assembled around him but his eyes stay trained on Nusu Nyo. She returned his smile. “If you are dreaming of moonblades and I dream of sunfire, then we have much to discuss, Ser Addam.”

He took a step closer to Nyo. “Aye, my lady, we do-,”

“But it must wait, Nusu Nyo, Ser Addam,” said Jaime, taking Addam by the elbow and turning him toward the Guest House. “Forgive us, my lady, but there will be time enough, later. I promise.”

“Of course, Ser Jaime,” she lilted, “Ser Addam. I must see to the stores of sunstar. Until this evening.” With a nod, her gaze lingering on the questions in Addam Marbrand’s eyes, she turned and strode from the yard on long legs. With a backward glance, Brienne followed and the two women began to talk at once, their heads drawn close as they spoke. Arya, Gendry, Rickon and Pod soon left the yard.

Jaime looked at Howland Reed. A small man, his own daughter stood a few inches taller than the man. “Lord Howland, may I escort you to the Guest House?”

“No, Ser Jaime,” he answered, his voice as distant as his searching eyes. “Lady Meera will show me that way.”

Jaime squinted at the man. He followed Lord Reed’s gaze to the tight, stiff back of Jon Snow stalking his way through the yard. Lord Reed’s eyes seemed fixed on a point only he could see. Jaime looked at Addam who only shrugged. “As you wish, my lord. My lady,” Jaime answered with a quick bow.

Addam Marbrand turned to Jaime Lannister as they walked across the yard. “So that is Ned Stark’s by-blow, his bastard?”

“Cannot you tell?” Jaime drawled. “They share the same long faces and love of sullen looks.” Out of nowhere, grudging pride softened Jaime’s words. “Though they also share honor, Addam. Like his father, it is in everything the boy does. And like his father,” Jaime sighed, “I pray it will not be the death of him.” Jaime and Addam continued to the Guest House, Jaime brimming to share the latest news with his friend.

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“To dreams.”

Jaime Lannister and Addam Marbrand clunked together their pewter tankers of ale.

“To dreams,” Addam echoed. Both men inhaled their cups in one unbroken swallow. Addam set his down first with a deep belch. He grinned at Jaime, shaking his head, his easy smile spreading across his face. “Jaime fucking Lannister! Alive and well, with long hair and that _beard_! You are a _giant_ , man! Surely you’ve gained twenty stone in strength alone! They would never believe it in King’s Landing!” Addam sat back and looked at Jaime. “ _Gods_ , I’ve missed you!”

Jaime laughed around a bite of his potato. “Aye, Addam. I’ve missed you, too.”

Addam’s smile slipped, his face darkened for a moment. “Never in a million life times would I suspect you meant to come _here_ , to Winterfell. Why _are_ you here, Jaime?”

Jaime put down his fork. “What have you heard?”

“Madness, really.” Addam shook his head, blinked his eyes. “I could not believe a word of it, it seemed so unlikely, so untrue. I heard that you fled King’s Landing, coming north, in winter. That on first sight, Jon Snow threw you in a cell, sentenced you to death. That he even had your golden head on the block but then Brandon Stark appeared, saving your life. That you pledged your sword, your life to the boy.” Addam stared at Jaime, his gaze sharpening to points. “That you pledged your sword to a _Stark._ ”

“Aye,” Jaime answered. “I did. And all you heard, true. But there is more, much more you would name madness or miracle in the telling of my journey to Winterfell.”

“Like your flaming blades? Did not Thoros of Myr use similar trickery in all those battles and melees?”

“Yes. But this is no doing of mine nor Lady Brienne’s. Maester Tarly suspects it is because both swords are forged from Ned Stark’s greatsword, Ice. Beyond that, only the gods know, like why you dreamed of Nusu Nyo and Winterfell.”

Addam gazed about Jaime’s room in silence. “Truly. But why did you pledge your sword to the Stark boy?” Addam flicked his eyes to where Jaime’s right hand should rest on the table. “Is he not a…cripple?”

“Aye. He is, because of me. I stole his legs when I threw him from that tower.” Jaime held up his stump. “But a Lannister always pays his debts. I paid mine with blood and tears in the Riverlands. Then the boy saved my life. So I gave him mine.”

Addam stared at Jaime. “I never knew.”

“None did, Addam,” he drawled. “It was hardly a feat to boast about. I can see it now, entertaining some high lord at a feast. ‘Did you know I once threw a Stark boy to his death, Lord and Lady So-And-So? You must taste the glazed duck! More wine?’”

“But _why_? You are not _cruel_ , certainly, not _vicious_ , like others-,”

“He saw us. He saw me. With Cersei.”

Addam gaped then glanced at the table. He gave a single nod but then lifted his eyes to look at Jaime. “So why come back to Winterfell, to the scene of your…?” He cleared his throat. “You told me you went to find happiness. How could that be here?”

“She was here.”

A slow smile crept up from Addam’s beard. “Ah, yes. The Maid of Tarth.”

Jaime smiled. “Yes.”

“Good. Good. Finally, she is your woman.”

Jaime’s smile fell near to his lap. “Well, no.”

Addam squinted across the table in shock. “What? No? I don’t-,”

“Addam, it is an overlong tale.” Jaime sighed. “I had to choose. I chose… _honor_.”

“ _Honor_?”

“Yes, Addam, I chose honor. When Brandon spared my life, I chose to serve with honor as I should have chosen so long ago.”

“Except,” said Addam, his voice soft, “except, your _heart_ already chose at Riverrun. And I suspect, even before she strode through our camp, a Lannister sword at her side.”

Jaime fixed Addam with a glare. “What the devils do you mean?”

“I was there, my lord.” A smile twisted free from the flame of Addam’s beard. “We sat discussing strategy in your tent when Peck brought word Brienne of Tarth sought an audience with Lord Commander Jaime Lannister. Never have I seen your eyes, your face so bright. When we took the castle, I saw you on the ramparts. You waved to her as she fled in that boat. It was only a lift, a twist of your wrist and she lifted her hand in return. As before, Ser Jaime, your heart was in your eyes.” Addam’s smile deepened. “It was treason, all of it. Yet, never have I seen a more honorable woman---and the honor you displayed in letting her leave. I should have known you would try to find her.”

“Why?”

Addam Marbrand shrugged. “Everything you have every done, you did for love.”

“Yes, well,” he drawled, “including putting three bastards on the Iron Throne, helping to bring about a war that destroyed a kingdom and throwing a little boy from a tower window, praying he would die. So you see, Ser Addam, I try to avoid that particular emotion these days.”

“Love defies even logic, Jaime.”

Jaime stared at Addam, blinking.

_We don’t get to choose who we love._

Jaime flexed his jaw, grinding his teeth at the back of his jaw. “I know this all too well, Marbrand.”

“So you know you cannot defy-,”

“Addam, I must try.”

“Jaime-,”

“I **MUST**!”

Addam stared at the change in his oldest friend.

“I must,” Jaime repeated, his voice a harsh whisper. “I never gave the people my best, Addam, only thinking of myself, of Cersei. Now, I have no lands, no title, no white cape, no swordhand. Honor is all I have left and all I must give. Now, please. You must tell me why _you_ are here. And what you know of the Dragon Queen and my little brother.”

Addam looked at Jaime, a long, quiet moment before lifting his powerful shoulder in an easy shrug. “I only hear rumors of rumors of rumors twice removed. As for Daenerys, I hear she proves a good queen.”

“Truly?”

“Aye. Through her alliance with Highgarden, she feeds the people of King’s Landing. Even more people have flocked to the city for food, fuel and protection. More come everyday but she keeps the peace through love, not fear.”

“Highgarden nearly starved us when Cersei sat the Iron Throne.”

Again, Marbrand shrugged. “Who can blame them, Jaime? Cersei murdered Lady Olenna’s grandchildren in the Great Sept. If it were me, every bastard in King’s Landing would eat stones and drink their own piss before I fed them the slime from a pig’s trough.”

“Truly,” Jaime nodded, “and we paid the debt owed to us with Tommen’s life.”

“It was a terrible price. He was a good lad.”

“Yes. A good lad, a sweet, biddable boy. But a terrible king.”

Addam said nothing, letting the truth speak in his silence.

“Is it true the babe Aegon Targaryen somehow sewed his skull back together and calls himself Aegon Reborn, again living in the Red Keep?”

“He is no longer a babe. He is of age with Jon Snow, slightly older, give or take a year. From all the rumors here in Westeros and across the seas, he looks every inch a Targaryen with that long, silver hair, purple eyes.”

“Well, I heard Princess Sansa died her own fiery hair dark when she fled King’s Landing for the Ayrie. Perhaps the same could be said of this Aegon Reborn.”

“Perhaps. Though it also said, Jon Connington raised the boy and was grilled and questioned and threatened by the Queen and archmaesters of the Citadel.” Addam shrugged again. “They seem satisfied with his proof.”

“Even Ser Barristan?”

“ _Especially_ Ser Barristan. There is no happier man in all the realms, Ser Jaime. All the Dragons did not die on his watch.”

“Lord Varys?”

Addam shook his head. “Not much to report, I fear. He is the Spider. Who knows where a spider hides?”

“Truly. But you should know I’d rather a spider than a viper. A serpent, Addam, slithers through the halls of Winterfell.”

Addam raised his brows.

“Littlefinger.”

“I had forgotten the old master of Coin!”

Jaime fixed him with a razored glare. “Never make that mistake again, Marbrand. It could prove too costly.”

Addam’s eyes and mouth grew hard. “Up to his old tricks, I assume?”

Jaime scoffed a laugh. “He wouldn’t be Littlefinger if he wasn’t.”

Without a word, Addam glanced at Sunfire laying next to Lion’s Heart.

“No, my friend,” answered Jaime, shaking his head. “He serves at the pleasure of Sansa Stark. Though, I fear, there won’t be much pleasure for her when his scheme is revealed.”

“Then she proves a fool to trust that one.”

Jaime sighed. “Yes. A hurt, scared fool.” Jaime swallowed and cleared his throat. “Speaking of hurt fools, what of Tyrion?”

“He is well. Flourishing once again as Hand.” Addam stared at Jaime, never blinking. “What will you do if you meet again?”

Anger flared in Jaime, tightening his voice. “Perhaps I will embrace him. Perhaps I will shove my sword through his neck. Perhaps, both.”

“He is your brother, Jaime. You should work for peace, for happiness and if you kill Daenerys’ Hand, all you will surely bring is more war.”

“He killed our father. I killed _her_ father. Jon Snow is a usurper to her throne. We are already at war, Ser Addam.”

“Yes, Ser Jaime.   Though the only war that matters now is with the dead.”

Jaime stared at him across the long table. “Is that why you are here?”

Addam nodded. Then his easy smile broke open over his face. “Now that I have seen her, there is no doubt I was called to Winterfell.” Addam glanced at the table, his voice sounding far away from the kindling crackling in the warmth of Jaime’s room. “I fled first to Tyrosh, always pleased with their spiced foods. After Tyrosh, I traveled to Lys, Lorath, Myr, Pentos and finally, Volantis, taking what gold I squirreled away, careful of my savings, how I answered questions. I worked in taverns near the docks, throwing out drunken louts and cutpurses, listening for any and all news of Westeros. You can learn much just standing with your arms crossed, looking bored, staring into the distance.”

Jaime laughed. “Yes, I was Kingsguard, remember?”

“Indeed,” Addam chuckled before his smile slipped, his brow furrowed. “But no matter where I went, I felt uneasy. Unsettled. In Volantis, I took a room in a quiet neighborhood, far from the crowded docks. It proved expensive for my meager savings but clean. An older man owned the place but his wife was young. Comely.”

Jaime smiled. “Certainly she provided a balm for the longing for home?”

Addam widened his eyes, suddenly serious. “No, she did not, Jaime. Oh, she offered, for sure, many times and often. But something always held me back, tugging me away from her enticements. Early one morning I returned to the room from my night of bouncing drunken fools. I came through the back door instead of the front and overheard the inn keep’s wife speaking to three men about _me_.”

“Who were they?”

“I never stayed to find out. I carried Sunfire and my gold, nothing else in my room was more important than these. I slipped through the alley and found another inn, this one not as clean but quiet. Before going to sleep, I vowed to find a ship to Braavos at sunrise. At the last moment, I changed my mind and decided to buy a horse in the morning and travel to Norvos or Qohor. But that night, I had the dream. Of Sunfire and a blade of moonstone and yellow flowers. Of a white wolf and high stone walls.” Addam paused, his smile deep, his eyes unfocused. “And I dreamed of _her_. The dark moon on her chest, white light in her hand. And the next morning, I set sail for Old Town.”

“Oldtown?”

“Yes. It was the cheapest ship to Westeros and a place where I once hid gold. But it also proved lucky.”

“How?”

“All during my sailing, I had the dream. Every night I saw the woman, her curved, white blade, her plastron of the new moon across her chest. I saw a field of golden flowers, the old walls of a great keep. And in Oldtown, I learned only a few months past there was such a woman studying at the Citadel, a woman from the Summer Isles who praised the moon and traveled with a young maester named Samwell Tarly when he went north to Winterfell, to serve Jon Snow, the White Wolf. I knew this woman was the woman of my dreams. ”

“So you sailed to White Harbor for the north.”

“Aye. And was set upon for dead if not for Ustan. I told him I needed to come north, to Winterfell and all the gold I had would be his once there. I understand so little of what he says but he guided me true until I insisted we sail as far inland as we could instead of taking horses and riding for Winterfell. We were blown off course by a freakish wind and captured by Howland Reed near Greywater Watch. I learned he moved his castle every night to avoid the attacks from the wights. But the very night of our capture, an onslaught was unleashed upon Greywater Watch and Lord Howland ordered us freed from our cells. We barely escaped with our lives.” Addam swallowed. “Most didn’t, Ser Jaime.”

“We suspected an attack of this magnitude at Greywater Watch after we received no ravens from Lord Howland.”

“We had no time to gather ravens. We rode for our lives. We rode day and night, barely stopping to sleep, eat, relieve ourselves. When we did stop, all Ser Howland could talk about was getting to Winterfell, to his girl. And sometimes I would catch a word, something about a boy.”

“Boy? What boy? His son, Jojen Reed, is dead.”

“I know not. Lord Howland would mutter something about a boy and that he must learn the truth before it too late.”

Jaime stood from his seat and crossed the room to the window looking over the godswood. He stared past the glass. Two boys sat beneath the quiet wood. Jon Snow cleaned Longclaw at the base of the Heart Tree, Brandon Stark leaning against the broad trunk. Beside Jon, his bronze crown cast a dull gleam through the gathering gloom. Summer and Ghost lay cuddled around each other. Brandon said something to his brother and Jon snapped his eyes to glare at the boy, his cloth still in their long, quiet movements. After a few breaths, Jon turned back to his sword, his long face mottled. Angry red patches rode high on his pale cheeks.

 _Whatever Bran told him, he loves it not_ , Jaime wondered.

“I fear the same for you, too, Ser Jaime,” Addam spoke.

Jaime froze and looked over his left shoulder. “What the devils do you mean?”

“After that day in King’s Landing, you said you went to find happiness. So let it find you, my friend.”

A pert knock rapped on the door. “Enter,” Jaime called, glad for the interruption.

A page dressed in pale gray and white entered the room. “Ser Addam’s bath and chambers are prepared, my lords. Then King Jon requests an audience with Ser Addam.”

“I will accompany Addam to his audience-,”

“Forgive me, Ser Jaime, but Ser Addam must come alone.”

Addam pushed back from the ironwood table and bowed low to Jaime Lannister. Jaime gave him a quick nod.

“Should I worry about the boy, Jaime?”

Jaime shook his head. “If he wanted you in chains, you would be in chains.” Jaime gave Addam a wry smile. “Trust me.”

Addam returned Jaime’s smile. “Indeed I do.” His voice softened on his next words. “It is good to see you, my old friend.”

Jaime watched Addam follow the earnest page to his new chamber and waiting bath.

When Jaime turned back to the window, Jon Snow sat alone beneath the Heart Tree. Ghost’s great head lay in his lap. The boy scratched behind the beast’s flicking ears but his eyes stared into the dark pool, watching the blood red leaves dance in slow, arching turns across the black water.

He stopped scratching Ghost to bury his head in the direwolf’s thick fur. Then he raised his head and dashed a hand across his eyes, pulling a deep breath into his chest. He released it on a cloud of steam. Jon leapt to his feet, bending to gather and place his crown over his furrowed brow. At attention, Ghost sat back on his haunches. Jon bent to retrieve Longclaw and with his blade unsheathed, he strode from the Heart Tree, all wrath and fury in his right hand, Ghost following at his heels.

For a moment, in stark profile, he reminded Jaime of someone, except that handsome face of long ago seemed always lit by a dimpled smile.

Jaime shook his head, shaking free the memory of the grim face that rode out to defeat the Usurper---and never returned to sit his father’s throne.

 

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

The noise of the Great Hall sounded to Jaime as the roar of the seas.

Once more he gazed around the sweltering room.

It seemed all of Winterfell gathered in the cavern of these walls, sweat pricking over foreheads, trickling down reddened faces, staining under the arms of tunics and spreading over low backs.

Jaime sat on the high dais and felt a finger of sweat slide down his spine and pool beneath his breeches. To his right, he turned to glance down the long table at Brienne. Her face was ruddy with heat as she stared into the distance.

Ruddy, he knew, with anger.

Though she apologized for her harsh words, Jaime knew she meant some of them, especially those naming him a craven.

Unworthy of her love.

Addam laughed again and Jaime swiveled his head to the right, glancing over Nyo. She laughed, too and her hand lay on Addam’s arm.

 _You would think,_ he mused, _this a celebration and not the last gathering before our long fall. But, still,_ he smiled, lifting his heavy cup _, some things must go on._

He turned from Addam and Nyo, heads down, close now, whispering, to lean back in his seat and flash a quick look at Brienne. She pushed something around on her plate and fumed on Addam’s right side.

Jaime narrowed his eyes in her direction.

_Look at me, Brienne!_

Jaime scrapped back his chair to stand and go and taunt the sullen wench when a mighty voice called, “All rise for his Grace, King Jon Snow, the White Wolf of Winterfell, wielder of Longclaw, bringer of justice, King in the North, and of the First Men! All hail King Jon!”

“ **All hail King Jon!** ”

Everyone shot to their feet but Jaime Lannister, using the quiet lull to swig from his ale. Addam Marbrand peered around Nyo. He raised one copper brow at Jaime. Jaime rolled his eyes and with a shrug. He slammed his tankard onto the ironwood table then rose. Jon took the stairs in quick leaps, Ghost trotting at this side, Longclaw still unsheathed in his gloved hand. Jon gave a nod and a wave to sit but Jaime already returned to his seat and drink. As everyone sat, Jon remained standing. The king turned to his right and met Jaime Lannister with a smoked glare from his dark eyes, flicked his eyes to Addam and Nyo but said nothing. He turned back to face the hushed room. Jaime noted how the boy seemed to pause as he gazed into each face, hold each eye as he swept the great chamber. Jon looked at the floor, his left hand balled into a tight fist. All was quiet except a barking cough from somewhere in the back of the room. Jon Snow nodded once. Then he raised his head, growing taller, light glinting from the nine points of his bronze crown. When he spoke, his voice carried steady and strong.

“I summoned this great gathering not to give words of the surety of survival but words of resolve to fight! I will not lure you into a false hope of comfort with empty promises of safety and succor but I will speak plainly of the cold, clear-eyed truth we must face this long, dark night! No one flies to aid us and I do not know if we will see the sun rise on another morn but I do know this---if we do not band together, if we do not hold each other’s future more precious than the bright light of a spring dawn, if we do not knit our hearts together with the blood, beat and sinew of our love, then we will go down in darkness, only to rise again as the cold undead.” Jon paused to sweep his eyes over the room. “This very morning, Maester Tarly heard a sound only heard once in his life and he prayed never to hear again.” Jon Snow began to pace the dais. “In this unholy scream, we heard the sound of our doom. For what we heard, what Maester Tarly once heard at the Fist of the First Men, was no ordinary sound of an ordinary army, deadly though a living enemy may be.  What he heard, what he recognized from out of the burning cold of his darkest nightmare was the cry of the White Walkers. The minions of the Cold One. And what we heard this dawn was their battle cry. They are coming. They are coming for us, here, tonight. They come to devour our flesh, to drink on our warm blood and to hold us forever in their sway.” The crowd began to murmur and shift as they sifted through the words of Jon’s warning. Jaime heard pockets of sobbing throughout the hall, cries of “No!” of “Mercy!” of “Save us!”

Addam flicked his eyes to Jaime. “If he frightens them,” he muttered to Nyo under his breath, “they will panic and if they panic, they will not fight. This is folly! What is he doing?”

“Save us!” a voice demanded. “Save us, King Jon!”

“Yes,” Jon answered, his voice strong but sad. “Yes, that is what you ask of me. And well you should. I am your king. And if I had it in my power, I would save all of you, even if it meant laying down my own life. But I alone cannot save you! There is no great power in me, no magic, no spells, no wards to blast them to the hells! No, there is no power in me.” He scanned the room once more, a slow rake of the room with his heated eyes. “But there is power here. A great power.   A deep, old power. For there is all power in _you_. You must fight not for yourselves but for each other. You must cast aside any hope for your future to ensure the person seated next to you, standing across from you will see the sun rise on a new day. You must surrender all hope of survival if this means a crying babe may be spared to walk the green hills of summer and feel the wonder of the sun. Quite simply, you must resolve to fight! This is the power in you. This is the great power the enemy shall never have,shall never know. For in each and every one of you is the power of sacrifice. The power of duty. Of honor.” Jon swallowed a thick lump past his throat. “Of love. In all of you is the power to love which is always greater than yourself. It is all we have.  And tonight, it will be more than enough.” Jon knelt before his people, his hands clasped over the hilt of his sword. “And this I vow to you now and forever! I will never take from you what I will not give! Will you fight for me?”

**“AYE!”**

“Will you fight for your brother’s future?”

**“AYE!”**

“Will you fight for your sister’s dreams? Will you fight for duty, for honor?”

**“AYE!”**

“Will you fight for love?”

“ **AYE!”**

Jon stood from his knees, raising his shimmering blade. “You will give your lives not for me and not for Winterfell but for the realms of all men!” Jon hoisted his sword higher, to the stars. **“FOR THE REALMS OF MEN!”**

**“FOR THE REALMS OF MEN!”**

**“FOR THE REALMS OF MEN!”**

The chanting cries hit like a blast against Jaime’s face.

Summer, Shaggydog and Ghost lifted their snouts and began to howl, rising over the hall, roiling the cry even higher.

This was their answer.

Jaime sprang to his feet, Lion’s Heart freed from its sheath and in his hand.

Lion or Wolf, Dragon or Kraken, the real enemy came for them all.

And they would come for Winterfell, first.

All along the dais, Jaime watched as the nobles stood and cried their defiance, even Brandon Stark in Hodor’s arms. Beside the small man, Hodor nearly deafened Howland Reed with his bellowing chant of **“HODOR! HODOR! HODOR!”**

“ **OPEN THE DOORS!”** boomed Jaime, the gold lion. **“OPEN THE DOORS SO THEY MAY HEAR OUR ROAR!”**

The doors flew open onto the darkening cold of a winter’s dusk.

Their answer carried over the high walls, into the woods, onto forever.

Defiance.

Courage.

Sacrifice.

Love.

A conspiracy of ravens burst from the gnarled, bare branches of an oak tree, their dark wings silhouetted against the failing light.

From high atop a barren slope, a horse saw the wheeling birds and gave a nervous whicker, stamping its peeling hoof.

No steam blew from it muzzle.

The dark mangy coat rotted to strips and exposed the pale muscle and splintered bones of its long jaw. It whinnied again.

The rider gave a hiss, silencing the beast.

Boots dug into the rotting flesh of its broad sides and the horse began a slow, loping climb down the hill. The rider did not turn to see the leagues shambling behind his fell mount.

He knew they would follow him anywhere he dared take them, until the end of all time.

He remembered the promise he wove into the call of his horn, the promise to prepare their plump, bawling babes as meat for the Cold One, to choke them with their own steaming innards and more, much more. He knew the Blooded heard the horn and now prepared, answering with this feeble cry of resistance.

He hissed again, a grating laugh.

As though they hid a power that could turn the tide of their doom.

A smile slashed through his gray, sunken cheeks, blasted into long lines by a thousand and thousand years of ice and storms from beyond the Wall.

Let them prepare.

The rider would be there long before the rising sun.

And he would savor every cry, every plea of mercy and bargain for their miserable lives when they realized, through blinding tears, the sun would never rise again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I wrote over forty pages and decided it best to divide into two chapters.
> 
> Chapter 17 should be posted in a few days...all I can say is, some of those tags many of you have been waiting for will (finally!) be realized...


	17. Spun, Measured, Cut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You will make your choice. Or is it a another word if it already made for you?”

 

 

 _Will this thrice-damned dawn ever come?_  
For a countless time, Jaime scanned the ink black sky for signs of its lightening. He knew from regular reports announcing the hours’ passing that soon dawn would slide over the dark ledge of the horizon.  
Jaime looked again.  
But for the moon, the sky remained darker than the bottom of a well.  
_Darker than a tomb._  
Jaime shivered deeper into his armor, thinking of those huddled in the darkness of the crypts, at times soothed and strengthened by Sansa Stark. For all the cutting looks she gave both Jaime and Addam Marbrand, the girl proved an able warrior of sorts, organizing and leading the people to safety after Jon’s rally.  
The people of Winterfell had not been idle.  
Stores of fresh water, oaten cakes, blankets, wood and dragonglass weapons had been hauled to the crypts for such a time as tonight.  
Jaime witnessed Arya giving her sister a quick lesson in using the obsidian blades for protection. In a strange, completely unsurprising way, Sansa proved an even quicker study in finding killing blows for the brain, throat and heart. Jaime imagined she practiced in her mind on _his_ skull, neck and chest.  
_Though she should do more than practice on Lord Baelish. No doubt at this very moment Littlefiner cowers behind her full skirts_. Jaime felt his lip curl in a sneer. _And when no one is looking, tries to lift them._ Jaime did not miss the strange look Petyr Baelish gave Addam, somewhere between surprise, rage and delight when he saw them on the dais.  
_Nothing good will come of that look._

Jaime’s mind drifted to Brandon, remembering Hodor bringing the boy to Jaime before leaving for the crypts.  
He regarded both Westlanders with wide, blue eyes, a smile twinkling behind them.  
“Ser Jaime. Ser Addam. Welcome to Winterfell.”  
Addam bowed low to Bran. “Prince Brandon.”  
Bran turned his bright gaze on Jaime for a long moment, so long Jaime felt dread began to pool in his bowels. He narrowed his eyes at the boy. “Is there something you wish to…say, Brandon?”  
Brandon shook his head. “I dare not, Ser Jaime. But I will say this. You will make your choice. Or is it a another word if it already made for you?” Bran pursed his lips in a quick smile. “Goodnight, Ser Jaime.”  
“Hodor,” said Hodor, carrying Bran to the dark crypts.  
_Is it another word if it already made for you?_

Before they left the Great Hall for their posts, Jon Snow spoke to Jaime and Lady Brienne.

“Tonight, I want you both at the East Gate. And do not lose sight of the other, commanders.”

Jaime watched a gust of wind lift her bright hair in the distance. Her soldiers appeared as fierce and ready as the quiet woman waiting to do battle.  
Jaime slid his eyes from Brienne. Once again, he looked for the dawn, searching the sky for the sun and the word that would fit inside Bran’s riddle.  
  
  
****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************  
  
Tonight proved strange.  
For one thing, there were _less_ wights, not more, as Sam predicted.  
For another, Jaime felt deep, growing unease at seeing Meera Reed commanding the archers over the East Gate.

Jaime heard the _twang_ of a bow then a muffled explosion. Meera Reed roared her orders though tonight’s sunstar stores were lower than ever.  
“Commander Reed!” he called to the ramparts, desperate to have her beside him on the ground. “May I speak with you?”  
She peered at him, narrowing her eyes in the gloom. "Just a moment, Ser-,"  
Jaime's heart raced as if something chased him down a long, dark tunnel. He put the full weight of his authority behind his summons. "No, _now_ , girl! I must speak to you at once!"  
Meera gaped at Jaime and said nothing though he heard the girl give command of the ramparts to Ser Orwyn. With the agility of a shadow cat, she flew down the scaffolding of stairs to join him before the East Gate.  
“Ser Jaime,” she said, tighter than a drum, “what is it you _command_ -,”  
At that moment, a horn sounded, a short blast stilling her words.  
It was the same fell horn heard in the chill, winter dawn, mocking their flimsy, bloody hearts.  
“They are coming!” Ser Orwyn shouted. “Good gods! There are hordes and hordes! Nock, draw, loose at will!”  
The horn sounded again, promising to tear their flesh in strips and chunks with only their teeth.

Jaime froze, feeling the tunnel narrow to a point of darkness.

He searched for Brienne.  
“Ser Jaime! I must return to my post!”  
Once more came the call, this time long, deep, strong, vowing to draw out their pain, their torture, if they resisted the coming of death.  
The arrows ceased flying, bows dropped against the stone. Archers and soldiers staggered to their knees, covering their ears, begging for mercy. Others stood and wept. A few others drew steel and sent quarrels over the walls.  
Meera turned to scramble up the stairs, her eyes blazing in defiance. “You cravens,” she shouted,“loose the arrows! Loose them now! **_LOOSE_!** ”  
The final blast came, darker, longer than the last. No words sounded in the call, just an unending roll of sound.  
With a start, Jaime felt why.  
He snapped out his left hand, pulling the girl back against the flat of his sword, praying Brienne felt it, too.  
Meera looked about, eyes wild, pushing away his arm. “Release me, Ser Jaime! I must go to my archers, order your soldiers-,”  
**“THE WALL MOVES!”**  
Jaime curled the girl into his chest and ran from the breaking wall, snatching glances behind him as they escaped deeper into the keep.  
The high, stout walls of Winterfell tumbled like pebbles in the Trident as they crashed and thundered to the grounds below.  
Jaime held his breath for what felt like centuries, feeling the earth near the East Gate buckle and roil with the crashing of the great stones, searching for her bright hair, hearing the screams and pleading sobs of “Mother!” from those thrown to their deaths or crushed beneath the heaving blocks. A column of stone almost toppled into the Great Keep, nearly missing the building, crashing near Jaime and Meera Reed and covering them in dust. The shaking rattled his teeth around in his jaw as he covered her small body with his own.  
Finally, the upheaval stopped.  
Meera stared at him with streaming eyes trailing a path through the grime on her face.  
An eerie quiet settled over the yard with the thick dust.

Jaime looked at his sword. Silver flames sputtered along his blade.  
Jaime felt his chest tighten.  
“ **BRIENNE**!”  
“ **FATHER**!”  
The groans grew louder.  
Out of the mist and dust, a wight shambled through the gaping hole blasted open by the Walker’s horn.  
It was once a young woman with long red hair now dulled by death. She lurched towards Jaime Lannister with outstretched hands, white with blacked nails, the black maw of her mouth hungry opening and closing for his blood.  
He cut her down in a single stroke.  
Shards of ice shattered like glass.  
In a blink, Jaime’s eyes widened in horror.  
A horde of wights, each more foul and decaying than the last, filed through the breach, filling the yard with their snarling moans.  
“ **FIGHT**!” he screamed at Meera Reed, stricken, frozen at his side. “ **FIGHT, NOW!** **LADY BRIENNE!** ”  
In a flurry, Meera Reed rose with twin dragonglass daggers in her small hands and began slashing and stabbing at the wights.  
Jaime launched himself over the heap of stones, his eyes scanning through the dust. Fingers cracked beneath his boot, a splayed hand jutting through a space of stones. Jaime cut down more than ten wights in two strokes as he climbed to the top of the pile.  
He glanced at his sword before using it to slash through more wights.  
The flames flickered weaker than before.  
On the ground, _far, too far_ from where he stood, white-blonde hair shone bright, like a beacon through the fog. Oathkeeper’s hilt lay in her open hand. A large stone lay on her left side, pinning her to the earth.  
“ **BRIENNE!** ”  
She did not move.  
Jaime started down from his perch.  
But a shadow moved at the edge of his eye, the great moon flashing on its sharp blade.  
Out of the mist, Jaime saw the creature, taller than him or Lady Brienne, more of a size with the Hound or the Mountain. Its bare chest, arms and face proved withered and scored with deep lines into its gray flesh, its long white hair, lank, dry wisps whipping in the winds. It turned dead blue eyes on Jaime.  
Jaime gasped at what slashed through the Walker’s face like a smile.  
It turned away from Jaime and began long, slow strides to its target.  
“ **BRIENNE!** ”  
Jaime threw himself down the hill of stones, running as if he moved through all the pressing waters of the Narrow Seas. He rose from a rolling tumble slashing and cutting through hordes of wights, screaming and shrieking her name.  
The beast raised his sword, a hissing curse as cold and dead as ice.  
Jaime would never be there in time.  
Weasel's dirt stained face swam up to gaze at him.  
Jaime screamed Brienne's name again, grabbing for his heart, near puncturing his chestplate with the dragonglass dagger covering his stump.

The Walker’s sword arced down, the moon frozen in the iced edge of its blade.  
Jaime saw the point falling toward her neck.  
He felt his knees falter.  
Jaime felt hands tear at his shoulders.  
A bright orange sword rose up to meet the Walker’s blade.  
_Sunfire_!  
The clash of ice and fire rang over the yard.  
With a cry Jaime, sprang up, lashing out with his stump and the wight at his side crumpled to the ground.  
With both hands, his feet digging into the earth, Addam Marbrand fought to keep the ice blade from reaching Brienne’s throat.  
But the two swords dipped lower and lower.  
Nyo’s voice rose clear and cold as the moon above their heads, uncloaking herself from the deep shadows.  
“ ** _Bhari ne Jhinn’a mozaro ikala!_** ”  
In a blink, a curve of pearly light slashed across the Walker’s chest, where its own heart would be.  
It snapped its head to the darkness beside it.  
The Walker shattered, its shriek rending the air as it splintered.  
Cries of “For the realms of men!” circled round the yard, the soldiers pushing back the horde through the breach of fallen stones.  
But Jaime heard nothing, saw nothing but Nyo bending over Brienne, Addam Marbrand shattering any wights that come near the women.  
  
Jaime ran to join him in battle, Lady Meera at his side, slashing through any wights in their path.  
Once more, silver flames burst from his sword.  
  
  
  
****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

The soldiers worked quickly to beat the wights back behind the breach and keep more wights from entering the yard.  
Finally, _finally_ , the weak sun rose over the black line of the world, sharing the sky with the bright moon.  
When the yard cleared of any wights, Jaime stumbled over jagged stones, grabbed Brienne’s chin and swiveled her lolling head to his face. Rickon Stark rounded the corner and skidded to a halt. His mouth hung open in shock, opening and closing on silent sobs.

Jaime shook her shoulders and shouted, “Brienne! Brienne!”  
She made no answer.  
“Brienne! Wake up! Answer me, wench!”  
Brienne’s eyelids fluttered open, her own glorious eyes unfocused on Jaime’s ashen face.  
“Jaime,” she whispered before slipping once more into sleeping silence.  
“Tarly! Where in the hells is Maester Tarly? We need him here, **_NOW_**!”  
Addam and Meera stood guard, alert for anything bearing down on them from the blind side.  
Rickon Stark gulped down his tears and bolted for the crypts, Shaggydog and Summer at his heels.  
Nyo knelt on the other side of Brienne. “Jaime, I need you to move back.” She met his fierce gaze. “I need room to examine her again.”  
Jaime scooted away from Brienne, his eyes scanning Brienne’s face for any signs of waking while Nyo prodded her skull with gentle fingers.  
“We must get this armor off of her, to see if there is any damage to her organs.”  
Jaime began unbuckling straps, his fingers frantic as they flew over her plate..  
Nyo stilled his hand. “Not here, Ser Jaime.”  
“But you just said-,”  
“Yes, I know. But she is alive. She is breathing. And there is no blood in her mouth. But we must wait for Maester Tarly.”  
As if on cue, Sansa Stark ran out of the mist, her skirts raised above her knees in her fisted hands. Maester Tarley trotted behind Rickon Stark, huffing and steaming through the yard. Four Stark men came behind, carrying a stretcher. Sansa threw herself down on the other side of Brienne.  
“The crypts, my lady? Prince Brandon?” Jaime asked.  
“Fine,” she answered, tart as citron. She moved her hand over Brienne’s thick neck, searching for a pulse. Sansa’s round eyes flew to Jaime. “Is she-,”  
Maester Tarly knelt beside Jaime with a grunt. “Allow me, Princess Sansa.” She snatched her hand from Brienne. “Her status?”“Alive. Unconscious,” answered Nyo. “Breathing in tight, wincing gasps.”  
Samwell Tarly examined her prone body, her neck, head. He put his ear against her breastplate. “Broken or bruised ribs?”  
Nyo nodded.  
“Was she touched by the Walker’s blade?”  
“I do not know,” Nyo said. “It all happened so quickly.”  
Tarly opened her mouth, tilting her chin to peer inside. “Who stopped the Walker?”  
“Ser Addam and I.”  
Tarly narrowed his owlish gaze at Nyo. “With sunstar and Valyrian steel?”  
“No. With Ser Addam’s Sunfire and my moonblade.”  
“Moonblade? Is it a weapon made of-,”  
“I will explain its properties later, Maester Tarly. Right now, Lady Brienne needs our attention.”  
“Yes. Right. Of course. We must get her indoors.” Maester Tarly rose with another grunt. “Gentlemen, we must take her to her chambers.”  
“I am coming, too,” said Sansa. “A lady must be present to undress her.”  
The men crouched down to lift Brienne from the ground to the stretcher.  
Jaime could only stare at her blanched face.  
_Am I to lose you forever?_  
“Ser Jaime? Ser Jaime?”  
Jaime snapped his head to Maester Tarly.  
“We must needs get her inside to remove her armor and check for any damage. For any fell wounds.”“Of course, Maester Tarly,” he mumbled.  
Sam dropped his gaze and Jaime followed his eyes. Jaime gripped Brienne’s hand, their long fingers laced.  
“You must release her hand, Ser Jaime.”  
Jaime swallowed, feeling her cold fingers slip from his hand. Maester Tarly gave him a pat on the shoulder. “We will do our very best, ser,” said Sam.  
“I will remain here and check for any wounded, Maester Tarly,” said Nusu Nyo.  
“And I will return to the yard to help when Lady Brienne is settled.”  
“Nyo,” Jaime called as the Summer Islander turned to leave. “Thank you. And, you, Addam.”  
They both looked at each other then turned to Jaime, giving him a single nod.  
Addam came forward and pulled Nyo into his powerful chest, his eyes brighter, hotter than his sword. “You truly are the woman of my dreams,” Jaime heard him whisper against her ear. When they pulled back, Addam stared at her before raising his thumb and tracing the fullness of her lower lip.  
“Truly,” she said with a smile. “I am. And we both meant to be here.”  
Addam kissed Nyo’s hand and watched her walk toward a trio of wounded soldiers, bending down to examine the men, a smile blooming on his face. He turned to Jaime. “I must find Master Ustan then attend the Stark boy in your absence, Jaime. I know you will wear a trench in your floors from worry for the Lady Brienne.” Addam clapped Jaime on his shoulder then turned to leave.  
Arya, Gendry and Howland Reed appeared in the yard, Meera running to her father and leaping into the circle of his arms. Nyo began calling orders to them for organizing and tending to the wounded.  
Maester Tarly and Sansa Stark rushed toward the Guest House, walking along Brienne’s stretcher.  
Nyo called to Rickon where he stood staring after Brienne.  
“Wait, Sam!”  
All eyes turned to watch Jon Snow limping across the yard, the boy waving away the startled question in Maester Tarly’s wide eyes. Jon stopped beside Jaime Lannister, Ghost and Ser Davos on his each side.  
By his mottled cheeks, Jaime knew the boy witnessed the tender kiss between Nyo and Addam.  
“I’ve learned Lady Brienne was attacked by a White Walker when the wall fell. Was she touched with the blade?”  
“We don’t think so, your Grace,” answered Sam, “but we won’t know until we examine her more closely.”  
“Who saved her?”  
“Nyo and Ser Addam,” Sam stammered.  
Jon nodded. His voice was curt, cold when he said, “You were both called here, perhaps for this very moment. You both have the gratitude of Winterfell. Please, everyone,” Jon said, raising his voice, “continue your duties.”  
Sam and Sansa hurried to the Guest House.  
Without warning, Jon Snow turned his storm cloud eyes on Jaime Lannister, lowering his voice to a growling whisper as he drew him aside. “This ends now, Ser Jaime. Whatever keeps you from embracing your destiny with Lady Brienne, this ends _now_. I understand you made vows, believe me, I do, but they are vows the gods do not need and did not ask of you. What they _need_ of you is your joining with Lady Brienne in mind, spirit and _body_ to defeat these beasts. The old gods rule here and your stubborn doubts and self-pity will prove the death of us all. Ser, I have tried to give you time to trust Brandon and his visions. To trust the gods. To trust _yourself._ But what we face is greater than your sins and greater even than your atonement. Lady Brienne almost lost her life and whatever must be done, you must do it _together_. We have run out of time, Ser Jaime. This ends now.”  
“Now, listen, boy-,”  
Jon looked up at him, just inches from Jaime’s face. “No, _you_ listen, you arrogant old fool! The gods _deman_ d you set aside the folly of your denial and join with Lady Brienne! The gods make ridiculous, painful, _intolerable_ demands of us _all_ , Ser Jaime! If they did not, they would not be the gods! For Bran has seen my _own_ future and I must not _touch_ a woman, _lay_ with a woman, _love_ another woman for twenty years.” Jon swallowed, his fierce whisper laced with ice. “You are not the only one who suffers to do what is right.”  
“What? Why on _earth_ would they _-,_ ”  
“It matters not! What matters are the needed sacrifices of _now_ for the promise of justice, of joy to come! You once said to put my people first. And so I do. You may make mock of me, ignore me, ridicule me as a bastard king but not the gods, not when our enemy comes to devour the earth and the gods give us the very tools to defeat them! Damn your mockery to the hells! This ends **_now_**! Do you understand?”  
Jaime and the King in the North stared at one another, eyes wide and blazing as their quick breaths steamed in the yard.

Both never blinked.

Those around the King and the Kingslayer dared not utter a sound through the long moment.  
Finally, Jon nodded, once, his eyes never slipping from Jaime’s taut face. “Ser Davos!”, he called, “with me!”  
“At once your Grace,” Davos answered. He passed Jaime with raised brows but Jaime did not miss the pride shining in the Stormlander’s eyes. “Be of good cheer, Ser Jaime.” Seaworth’s mustache twitched beneath his gentle smile. “Surely, there are worse ways to please the gods.”  
Jaime watched the boy’s hitching steps across the yard, Davos Seaworth at this side. Once, he was Stannis’ Hand and through many twists and unseen turns, he came now to serve Jon Snow. As in this very moment, it brought Jaime to call Meera from the wall, to find Weasel and Baby Girl, to be born Jaime Lannister and to push Brandon from that open window. The word he searched for all night slipped into place.  
_Fate_.  
All of it ran past Jaime in a blur: seeing her looming over the shoulder of Lady Catelyn in the dungeon of Riverrun, taunting her, mocking her dreams of knighthood as they traveled to King’s Landing, feeling the sting of defeat as she bested him in that cold stream, lying to save her from the rapers, losing his hand, his legend and the blue fire of her eyes when she willed him to live and take revenge. Jaime smelled the sharp stench of the bear’s fear, heard the jeers when he leapt into the pit to save her, saw Cersei’s slit-eyed envy flay Brienne alive and knew it only a matter of time before his twin sent her to Qyburn as a prize. Jaime remembered seeing her ride away from him, knowing in this brutal world, it could mean forever. Then standing in the cold yard of Winterfell, he felt again the jolt of seeing her alive and whole in his tent, Oathkeeper hanging at her side.  
Challenging him to keep faith with Catelyn Stark.  
Daring him to live his life with honor.  
He saw her in that tiny boat, praying she would turn around once more.  
She never did.  
Because it did not matter.  
She would find him again.  
And again.  
And again.  
_She is my choice._  
_No._  
_She is my fate._  
Jaime ran to overtake the stretcher.  
“Bring her to my chamber.”  
Sansa Stark gasped, blanching at his order.  
All looked at him, then Maester Tarly.  
Jaime ignored the girl’s reddening cheeks, the beaming smile breaking over Sam’s broad face. The boy was right. He time felt slipping away.  
Jaime did not attempt to leash the snarl escaping from his voice. “We have no time for this. I believe my bed bigger, you fools.”

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Brienne gasped, as if breaking through the surface of the sea, coming up, at last, for air.  
“Jaime!”  
“I am here.” He blinked at the sound of her strong voice, reaching and twining together his and Brienne’s cool, broad fingers.  
At last, they seemed to warm.  
She said nothing, only looked where they touched then around the room.  
His room.  
Confusion scrunched her plain features.  
“Why am I in your chamber?”  
“You are near a giantess, wench. And my bed is bigger.”  
“Your bed is big-,”  
“Bigger, yes. How do you feel?”  
Brienne scowled. “You try to distract me. Why am I in your bed, Jaime?”  
“Because you are an uncommonly large woman and I do not understand why you would consent to sleep for so long hunched and huddled in a bed made for a much smaller frame. So they brought you here. How do you feel?”  
She tried sitting up but winced and lay back against the pillows. “My side aches and I am thirsty. How long was I out?”  
Jaime stood to pour a glass of water, handing it to her. She finished it in one swallow, gasped on the last drop then lifted the glass for more.  
“Steady, Tarth,” he said, filling the glass. “Maester Tarly would find it in himself to murder me with his bare hands if you do too much too quickly.”  
This time she took a quick sip. “What happened to me? What time is it?”  
“The horn will blast soon, maybe two, three hours. As for what happened, a portion of Winterfell’s walls fell and struck you, leaving you unconscious.” Jaime sat down in the chair and took her hand. He studied her flat, square nails, felt himself once more running through a breaching wave. “Then a White Walker almost, almost…”  
“Jaime, no!” she gasped.  
“Yes,” he answered, his eyes flying to her face. “But he did not succeed. Addam and Nyo were destined to be there to protect you. To stop him.”  
Brienne seemed to mull his words. Then she started to rise but fell back once more against the pillows with a sharp cry.  
“What in the hells you doing, you fool?” Jaime growled.  
Her eyes glared back at him, like blue flames. “Trying to get up and out of your bed, you fool. I need to return to my own chambers, ready myself for battle. If they fought for me, saved me, Jaime, I must fight for them.”  
“Yes, of course. Only, not tonight, Brienne. Your ribs are too deeply bruised.”  
Brienne hardened her glare. “I can still fight. A few cups of willowbark tea and-,”  
“Yes, yes, I know, wench.” Jaime narrowed his eyes, crossed his arms, sitting back in the chair by her side. “I know you are a warrior, truly. You still owe me a rematch for our fight in the Riverlands, remember?”  
Brienne’s broad face burst into flames. “Do not speak to me as a child and I _must_ return to my room! This isn’t proper and well you know it!”  
Jaime scoffed a barking laugh. “Proper? The north is overrun with the undead and you speak to me of proprieties? No, my lady, _that_ is not proper. However, if it’s your honor-,”  
Her face flushed with warmth. “I said nothing of my honor-,”  
“Or mine, do not concern yourself. By now, the whole damned castle heard me demand you be brought to my room.” He leaned forward and took her hand. “With the little king’s blessing.”  
Brienne seemed to relax, settling deeper into the pillows. “It’s not that, Jaime. It’s….we had a fight, a huge row, not two days past. I called you unworthy-,”  
“Only after I told you to find someone else. And yet, here you are. In my bed.” He swallowed and fixed her with his unblinking gaze. “Where you will stay. For as long as you desire.”  
Fear, shock, whatever held in her wide eyes, Jaime soothed it by saying, “Or until you are better. Maester Tarly says you should be much improved in a few days and Nyo agrees.”  
“A few _days_? We do not have a few days, Jaime. I shall will myself to battle-,”  
“And you will die, Brienne. For once, let me fight for you. Just until you are healed enough to stand beside me.” Jaime rose and stalked to the door, reluctant to release her hand. He wrenched opened the door and called, “Pod! Rickon!”  
Podrick and Rickon appeared in but a moment, worry creasing their young faces.  
Both came into the chamber in stride, kneeling beside Lady Brienne. “You are alive, my lady,” breathed Rickon.  
She smiled at him, taking his hand. “It is my ribcage. I will be up and fighting soon, Rickon.”  
“Pod, Rickon” said Jaime, “if you could please let Maester Tarly know Lady Brienne is risen and bring food, we would both appreciate your efforts.”  
Pod gripped Brienne’s hand and blessed it with a soft kiss. “Right away, my lord.” Pod bounded through the door, a grin lighting his face, Rickon tight on his heels.  
Brienne’s mouth was a circle of shock.  
Jaime smiled. “Is that _three_ eager suitors for the Maid of Tarth? It seems Pod nor Rickon no longer concern themselves with what is _proper_ , either, my lady.”  
Brienne rolled her enormous eyes but a smile touched her lips.  
After eating and Brienne seen by a fretting Sam, Jaime kicked off his boots, slipped on a fresh tunic then knelt on the great bed to lay down.  
Brienne tried to scoot away but winced and froze half-lifted from the pillows. “What are you doing?” she demanded.  
Jaime stretched out on top of the covers and sighed. He looked at the ceiling before turning this gaze to watch her worry her bottom lip. “Something I should have done a long time ago.” Jaime flipped on his side and used his left arm as a pillow. “Lay down, Brienne. And let me hold you.”  
She regarded him closely, intense, uncertain as she scanned his mouth, his beard, his forehead until resting on his eyes. He did not waver from her gaze, only looked at her with the same certainty beating through his heart.  
“ Jaime, does this mean you accept-,”  
“Our fate? Yes, Brienne.” He heard the low thrum in his whispered voice, moving closer to her warmth. “But _only_ if my fate is _you_.”She bit her lip and laid her broad back against the propped pillows. When she was settled, comfortable, he wrapped his long arm around her firm lower belly, snuggling into her thick neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and clear lavender and…. _Brienne_.  
Jaime watched Brienne look down at the golden hair scattered over his arm, her long fingers brushing over the strands. Jaime felt his cock harden at her gentle touch but he knew it not time, not now.  
He smiled, inhaling her again.  
_Soon_.  
“That feels good,” he sighed into her neck, his nose touching the soft, warm skin. Against her warm bulk, Jaime felt every nick and bruise from his tumble down the rough stones. He yawned then blinked, willing his heavy eyes to stay open, watching the wonder in her bright gaze as she looked at him and smiled. She kissed his eyelids and he thought she whispered, “Go to sleep, Jaime.”  
In what only felt like minutes, he heard the horn calling the soldiers and archers of Winterfell to their stations.  
Jaime’s eyes flew open as Brienne called his name. Jaime heard a knock then Pod’s voice through the door.  
“Enter,” Jaime answered after planting a peck on Brienne’s cheek and rising with a yawning stretch from the bed.  
Pod entered with four men and a litter.  
“Ser, I’ve come to assist you with your armor. Lady Brienne, King Jon orders you carried and kept in the crypts for safety.”  
Jaime saw she wanted to argue but only nodded. He watched as they lifted her from the bed to the litter, careful not to jostle or jar her in any way. Still, she winced a few times but did not mutter or curse. Once settled on the stretcher, Pod set about preparing Jaime’s armor.  
“Wait,” Brienne said to the men carrying the litter. She lifted her head to look at Jaime. “Jaime. Promise me…promise me you…you…you won’t...”  
Jaime walked slowly to the litter and knelt, taking her hand once more. “I can promise you no such thing, my lady. I only promise you are my fate. I only promise you… _those damned blue eyes_ …are _mine_.” His words died on a growl as he took her mouth. She opened her lips in what Jaime prayed was a gasp of pleasure and when he slid his warm tongue across her own, Jaime thought he would die, now, from the quarrel flaming through his chest. Jaime released her hand to thread his fingers through her coarse hair, her hands reaching and gripping the back of his head as she pulled him closer to deepen the kiss.  
They finished wetting, nibbling along the length of each other’s throats then back to their waiting lips and tongues, moans soon escaping from both their mouths. Pod turned his back, staring out the window, while the four others in the room pretended not to notice their hunger, their desire or its sound.  
A second horn blared.  
Jaime rose from his knees with a final kiss and the men moved her through the open door, Brienne’s neck craning to see him once last time. Jaime prayed, feeling nothing as Pod buckled and strapped him inside his armor with quick, practiced fingers. All feeling centered on his lips and his lips were living fire and he still felt her burning kisses cooling on his skin. Jaime prayed and prayed he feel her kiss lancing through him once again _, please, you grim, sullen, feckless bastards , please, let me see her once more..._

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

He survived another battle.  
No White Walkers hunted then this night but hordes of wights lumbered through the gaping hole left by the Walker’s blast and the soldiers and archers of Winterfell proved hard pressed to stop the attack.  
Jaime ran to the crypts, his heart beating out her name when he heard, “Ser Jaime!”  
Jon Snow sprinted across the yard, waving a single piece of curled parchment.  
Jaime lifted his eyes from the paper to the bright gaze of he boy, eyes bright with what could only be… _salvation_.  
Jon pulled up in front of Jaime, his quick breaths puffing clouds in the cold air.  
“A letter, “ the boy panted, “from Lord Tyrion, from King’s Landing.” His long, handsome face near split from his smile. Jaime never noticed the boy’s deep dimples. “At last, Ser Jaime. At last. The Dragons are coming to Winterfell.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Jon.
> 
> And thank you to everyone still reading and commenting on these chapters!


	18. Pleasing the Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Septa Roelle proves, at last, good for something...

After every battle, as they slipped off their armor, bathed and tumbled into his bed, Jaime willed himself not to think of taking Brienne before she proved ready.

A fortnight passed since Brienne healed from her brush with the White Walker. With pride, he saw her quick return to battle more fierce and determined to victory than ever. They fought side-by-side in each battle, never losing sight of the other, their swords driving through the wights in silver flames. In truth, now, there proved little they did without the other.

Including, sharing a bed.

Jaime closed his eyes and fought against an image crawling through his mind of a damp rag trailing over her taut stomach, long legs, water beading over the swell of a breast as she cleaned herself behind the screen erected in his room for her modesty.

“I’ve already seen everything, wench,” he teased when it first brought to his room along with many of her things. “Remember?”

She glared around the corner of the screen and stopped short at the sight of his bare chest.

Jaime welcomed her gaze and could not forget the deep blush fanning from her neck to her cheeks, making her blue eyes blaze even more brilliant.

Jaime stretched and made sure to give Brienne a full view of his broad, rippling muscles before slipping on a fresh tunic.

After a moment, her eyes trailing over his chest, she licked her plump lips and ducked behind the partition, glaring at Jaime’s smirk.

He had felt smug, satisfied to know her eyes followed him as he followed her.

Now, with a stiffened cock, he suffered from the fantasy of Brienne’s peaked nipple, slick and glistening from his wet mouth.

Jaime heard the hour called and knew he would never fall back to sleep.

His hardened cock would not let him.

Perhaps he should ask Maester Tarly for a sleeping draught? But already, between the sick and injured, there proved much calling for Samwell Tarly’s attention. And at the end of this morning’s battle, Jaime over-heard Tarly fretting to Jon Snow about some herb---something called Wolfsbane---missing from his locked stores. Jon, covered in black gore, snapped his gray eyes to Maester Tarly. “Sam,” he bit out, “I have more to worry on then some fucking weeds missing from your stores.”

“But, Jon,” Tarly stammered. “That herb is _deadly_ , perhaps the most deadly herb in my collection.  They call it "The Queen of all Poisons," for the  toxin absorbs easily through the skin, killing in only two hours.  It is dangerous, Jon, and if someone has taken it for ill purpose-,”

Jon reached out a gloved hand, gripping Sam behind the head and brought Tarly’s broad face to his own. “Sam! The Dragons promised they would ride to Winterfell with all deliberate haste!” Jon dropped his voice to an iced whisper. “That letter came near a fortnight ago. And every night, more and more Stark soldiers and Free Folk die as we try to patch that gods damned blast in our wall!"  Jaime watched Jon release Sam, the King in the North struggling to calm his next words.  "So if the Dragons do not arrive and arrive soon, your missing Wolfsbane or whatever the fuck it is called will make little difference. We will all die.” Jon swallowed. “Or worse.”  Without waiting for an answer, the Snow spun on his heel, Ghost and his brothers at his side. Above the moans of the wounded, Jaime heard him calling for the kennel master. Sam watched Jon in a long silence before sliding his eyes past Jaime’s quirked brow and kneeling to tend a dying wilding.

And, Jaime noted, the truth grim, Jon Snow replaced his dead bannermen with more captains flying the blue flags of the Vale.

 _No,_ he thought, Baelish smirking in his mind, _perhaps a sleeping draught can wait…_

Beside him, Brienne gave a muffled snore. Careful not to wake her, he slid from the top of the covers and stood at the window. The Heart Tree, dripping rust colored tears, stared back.

_Is that?..._

Jaime gasped, leaned closer to the glass pane and squinted. The mouth on the carved face seemed lifted at the corners in a small smile. Jaime blinked and when he opened his eyes, the smile gone, the sullen face returned.

“What time is it?” Brienne murmured from the bed. Sleep made her voice husked and deep.

“Hour of the Stag,” he grunted, giving the tree one more look before turning to face her.

“Why are you out of bed? You cannot sleep?” Jaime took in the sight of Brienne and swallowed.  She looked delicious, raised up on her elbows to peer at him, her hair tousled and free, her face flushed. He stared at the patch of freckled skin peeking from the top of her linen shift.

“Apparently, wench,” he growled, clearing his throat.

She stared at him across the darkened room and said nothing though her wide, heated eyes made his cock even harder. “The horn will sound soon,” he warned, his voice soft. “Go back to sleep, Brienne.”

“No, I will not.” Lifting a corner of the furs, she stretched, all long, languid lines and rose from the bed. Jaime watched her walk toward him and felt his breath quicken, her thick calves bare beneath her long shift. She stopped just before him, so close he felt the heat of her body brushing against his own. Her eyes roved his face before settling on his parted mouth. “Sometimes, I love defying you, Jaime Lannister,” she whispered.

“Good,” he answered. “I like a challenge, wench.” Jaime closed the inches between them, covering her mouth with his own. His hand drifted down the length of her tunic to grab a fistful of the thin fabric and raise an edge, his thumb grazing against her strong thigh. But with a slight tremor, her fingers brushed bold over his cock through his fine woolen under breeches.

Jaime gasped her name, stilled her hand. “What are you doing?”

“Pleasing the gods,” she answered against his mouth, kissing him. “As they demand we do. Remember?”

Jaime pulled back to search her face. “Of course I remember. But, you are healed?” He swallowed, pushing down his desire. “You are… _ready_?”

Brienne’s answer was in her smile. “Yes. I…think so.” Her smile grew wider, though she bit her lips to hide it. She reached out a finger to stroke across his high cheekbone. “Yes. I am ready. Ready to be... with...you.”

In a flash, moaning her name, Jaime pulled her against the length of his body. He knew there was something he should say to her but he pushed away the warning he gave to Gendry, something about the stains of his past, about bastard babes, forgetting all except Brienne was ready…for _him_. Jaime backed her away from the window, toward the bed. As they kissed, snaking their tongues through each other’s warm, wet, eager mouths, he raised her arms above her head, freeing Brienne of the long linen shift. Jaime stopped kissing Brienne to gaze at the glorious sight of her in only her tight smallclothes. Through the thin, white gauze, her rosy nipples peaked to attention. Jaime trailed his eyes further down and stared at the thicket at the top of her thighs. He hooked a finger beneath the top of her drawers, pulling them down over a broad hip when her hand clamped over his. Jaime looked up into the face of now shy Brienne, her cheeks ablaze, her eyes looking everywhere in the room but at Jaime Lannister.

“Jaime,” she swallowed, “I know I am not…I am not…what you are _.._.used to… _seeing_. I know I am not a beauty or blessed with much you like… or…or…” Her voice trailed off and she covered her meager breasts and sex with her broad arms and hands.

“Don’t,” he snarled, snatching her hands in his own, pining them behind her back as he kissed her, ferocious. He broke away for her mouth to whisper, “Never again will you hide from me nor compare yourself to another. Look at me, Brienne!” he commanded. She lifted her eyes to look at him, worrying her bottom lip still moistened from his kiss. “There are no other women like you. Just _you_. And you are…you are… _mine_.”

For a long moment they stared at one another, Jaime’s green eyes flaming, like wildfire. Finally, Brienne nodded. “I am yours,” she panted, repeated, moaning his name and throwing long arms around his shoulders before kissing him once more, heading toward the great ironwood bed.

Once there, Jaime sat Brienne on the edge of bed and eased her onto her back, lifting himself on the heel of his hand as he knelt on the bed, careful of pressing his full weight against her bruised and tender ribs.

“Brienne, perhaps we should wait until-,”

“I am healed, Jaime,” she grunted and pulled him down to rest against her chest, wrapping her arms around his back, crushing him between her corded thighs. They seemed to wrestle against one another then, Brienne tearing Jaime from his tunic, Jaime unbinding her from the tight camisole trapping her breasts. Jaime stared at her bare teats then did something he dreamed of doing for so long. Lowering his head, he drug his mouth over her pink nipples as Brienne shivered and stifled a scream. He moved his mouth to the other nipple, sucking and licking at the peak as beneath him, Brienne writhed and ground against his straining cock.

“Jaime,” she grated, her fingers spearing through his hair, “Jaime, I’m ready…”

He broke off playing his tongue over a tight nipple. “Not yet, my love.” He sucked at the rosy bud again and was rewarding with a moaning gasp. “Not yet.”

“When?” she groaned.

Jaime answered with a trail of hot kisses down her stomach, Brienne craning her neck to watch his path, her lips flushed and plumped from biting them between her overlarge teeth. He grinned at the sight and she grabbed his hand her own, returning his smile. Jaime knelt on the floor, his head cradled between her smooth thighs. He released her hand to inch down her smallclothes. Brienne lifted her bottom from the bed as he glided her drawers over her ankles and threw them somewhere in the room. Jaime inhaled. Her thick, warm fragrance bloomed around him, pulling him close. He parted the folds of her glistening sex, reveled in her whimpers as he explored her wet secrets with his fingers. While he touched her, Jaime kissed the tight nub at her sex. She gasped, a sharp, hissing breath. Jaime stared at Brienne through the damp, golden hair between her thighs. “Though you a maid,” he explained, his voice low, “I wish to give you pleasure as you give me.” He smiled again at her expression then took her nub with a gentle sucking of his wet mouth. Jaime watched Brienne’s eyes roll to the back of her head as she fell against the pillow. His fingers and mouth set to work, his beard and face and hand dampened with the heady essence of Brienne. “Touch your nipples, let yourself feel the pleasure,” he instructed and she did, pressing her mound against his greedy mouth. He sucked at her nub, his tongue light against the sensitive skin. Jaime inserted one then two fingers inside her passage and moaned when he felt her clamp down around him.

“Jaime,” she breathed, bucking against him, writhing, one hand in his hair, the other pinching her taut nipple, “Jaime, yes, Jaime, Jaime, Jaime, yes, right…right… ** _THERE_**!” The heft of her leg shook against him as she flattened into the mattress and moaned through her completion.

At once, Jaime stood on his feet, his hand fumbling to free himself from his underbreeches.

Brienne gaped, eyes wide, at his member through the haze of her pleasure.

Jaime looked down at his jutting cock.

He knew she had seen him naked in the bath at Harrenhal but he was sick then, full of loathing and felt like dying. The only woman who had ever seen him aroused was Cersei. With a sudden shame, he felt like covering his body.

“Don’t,” she said, his hand creeping forward. Brienne drug her eyes to his face. “No hiding. Remember?”

“But you look as if something is… _wrong_.”

She laughed, bright eyes twinkling, and Jaime wondered how she could possibly doubt her beauty. “Everything is fine, Jaime. It’s just… _something_ …is quite… _large_.” Her eyes slipped once more to his cock. Brienne bit at her lip. “I just wonder…just worry…if you will… _fit_.” Her eyes flew to his own.

Jaime sighed, feeling his chest loosen, and knelt on the bed. He draped over her warm body and kissed her, feeling her relax against him. “There is too much worry between us, wench,” he assured her. “Let us behind leave the world inside these walls.” Jaime kissed Brienne then, long and deep, feeling her grind against him in rhythm.

After a time he whispered, “Are you ready?” She nodded and traced his bottom lip with a finger. Jaime bit at her finger and she laughed.

Putting his hand between her legs, he played over her dampness, feeling her clamp around his three fingers, widening the tight, slick opening. He eased himself between her stout thighs, whispering for her to relax, to breathe, to trust.

With a thrust, he felt her hot, wet passage grip around him. A surge of pleasure tore through Jaime, forcing from him a groan, closing his eyes. Jaime opened his eyes to see Brienne smiling through a grimace. “Breathe, Brienne,” he coaxed and he kissed away the scowl as he began to pump in and out of her burning core, gasping at the warm, tight, wetness sliding over his cock. Just then, Brienne put a broad hand in the middle of Jaime’s chest. With a light touch, she gripped then released the thick patch of golden hair at its center. “Jaime,” she panted. “Jaime, stop.”

He stilled above her, his face scrunched. “What is it? Is it too soon? Are you hurt?”

“No, no,” she breathed. “It’s just…I’ve always wanted to try…something.”

Jaime moved, adjusting himself inside of her. “Try something? Try what?”

She brought her legs higher, until they hooked around his back. She stared at him, intense, unblinking. “I’ve always wanted to try _this_ , Jaime…I would…touch myself…at times…and think…of _you_.”

Jaime felt Brienne grip him with her body, as with a hot, wet hand, and he gasped, grabbing a fist full of her hair to stop from sliding off the edge of the world. He no longer moved above her, all movement came from her tight sheath which pulled at his cock from hilt to tip, milking him in a rhythm that made him gasp and groan and moan her name with each pulse. He felt his eyes rolling all around his sockets, his mouth slack, his tongue lolling just over the top of bottom lip. His heart hammered against his chest, his breathing felt unsteady and Jaime feared he would pass out from the pleasure. Her hands gripped his arse and he pulled back out, only the head of his swollen cock still inside her. When he plunged back inside, she squeezed around him with a shuddering groan. Again and again, he slid out and in, waiting for a breath while she gripped then released his cock. Jaime looked at Brienne through slit eyes. The wench’s expression mirrored his own for her full mouth was open, her lips flushed and swollen, her eyes whited out as she fucked him, gliding her wetness all over him, working them both to completion with each pulse.

She looked magnificent.

Jaime almost came from the sight of her in such open, pure ecstasy. He looked down the length of their joined bodies and marveled at the power of her slippery passage, feeling her squeezing and sliding all around him. He grinded into her in experiment and she gasped and held him closer, rubbing him, grinding him against the tight nubbin at the top of her cleft. Together, their golden hair glistened in the candle flames, drops of their pleasure mingling and wetting Jaime’s hair at the top of his deep pink cock.

“Touch your nipples again, my love,” he panted, wishing to all the gods that he had another hand in which to pinch and pull and tease her hard nipples. She took both flushed nipples between her thumbs and pointer fingers, crying his name as it released more pleasure. Jaime unhooked her legs from behind his back, holding her left leg open. He kept grinding into her, kept grinding and gasping and groaning, felt her grow hotter, wetter, slicker, her gripping, greedy core sucking him, pulling him, milking him, milking him into oblivion. Suddenly, he felt the rhythm of her body grow erratic even as it clamped harder on his cock, he saw her toes curl in all directions, and the leg he held out with his hand began to tremble. Brienne’s head snapped back against the pillow, her long, thick neck exposed for his hot mouth and squeaked his name as he bent over her. Her hands pulled at the top of his hair as he sucked on the soft skin of her throat. She was even wetter than before and Jaime almost slipped out again and again from all the slickness surrounding him. She felt hotter, too, tighter. He felt his own pleasure mounting him, _hard_.

“Brienne, Brienne, I’m close-,”

She tightened around him again.

 _Oh, gods, no, oh please…_ “No, no, my darling, please, release me-,”

“Yes, Jaime, yes. _No hiding_.” She pulled his face to hers, the dark pupils of her blue eyes blown open from pleasure and love and Jaime felt himself falling over the edge at last.

“Brienne, Brienne, no, oh gods, **_BRIENNE!_** ”

He stiffened then fell on top of her, as if speared from behind, roaring her name into the pillow. Only using her cunt, she wrung every drop of his seed it seemed, turning her head to kiss his open mouth with her own and Jaime felt her shatter in completion around him again. This time, she cried her pleasure, his name into his mouth. When she finally released him from her throbbing sheath, he still lay on top of her, both panting their hearts back to a normal rhythm. He felt his seed slip from her body along with his sopping, limp cock.

She was the best, the _best_.

He rolled onto his back.

 _And I_ , he seethed, _am what I always am. A fool._

Brienne turned her head to smile at him. Sweat glistened on her forehead. “Oh, gods, Jaime,” she said, grinning. “That was-,”

“Stupid,” he finished and pushed himself to sit on the edge of the bed. She said nothing, only stared at him as he walked to the basin on the table. By the time he wet the cloth hanging on the side, she was beside him.

She put her hand on his shoulder. “Jaime. Jaime what’s wrong?”

He glared at her as he washed his shaft. “I told you to release me from your... _grip_.  I’ve already given the realm three bastards, Brienne.” He threw the rag in the basin, water splashing them both with the force. “I don’t intend to give anymore.” His voice was soft, vicious, and Brienne looked at him through narrowed eyes.

“What exactly do you accuse me of, Jaime?” she asked, her own voice soft. She removed her hand from his shoulder.

He scoffed and walked around her to grab a towel. “I’m not accusing you of anything, my lady, except stupidity and recklessness, of which I have plenty already, thank you.”

“What was so stupid and reckless about what just…happened?”

He stopped toweling himself dry to stare at her. “Are you really this stupid, Brienne? Do you really not know how babes are made?”

She crossed her long arms over the firm muscles of her lower abdomen. “And are you so _stupid_ that you’ve never heard of moon tea, Jaime?” He gaped, covering his cock with the damp towel. “ _Moon tea_ , ser. The tisane women drink that don’t want to have babes, _ser_. Maester Tarly assures me it is quite effective when sipped daily. And I have drunk a cup of the gods awful stuff at supper every since I came to your bed.” She uncrossed her arms and went to the jumbled pile of their clothes and armor. “And stop calling me stupid. I care not how your father spoke to you, how you speak to yourself, or how you speak to others, you will **_NOT_** speak to me that way.” She found her small clothes and began to jam her leg through a hole.

“Brienne, please.” Jaime almost ran to her, putting his hand on her arm to stop her movements. “I’m sorry, forgive me. You are right. My outburst was unworthy and uncalled for and I apologize, my lady. It’s just-,” he drew her to sit back down on the bed, laced his fingers with hers. He smiled to see them entwined. _I love that your hand would be bigger than mine…_ He watched his thumb swirl circles around hers _._ “It’s just, we never talked about…what we would do. At the end. To prevent…babes. I wanted to spill myself into the sheets or the furs. Instead, I spilled myself into…you.” He looked into her eyes, then, those brilliant blue eyes that pulled him into the greatest pleasure he had ever known. He felt him self stir again. She squeezed his hand.

“Jaime, I am sorry I did not tell you about the moon tea. What with my injury, the battles, the Dragons...and I did not want to…presume we would…although, I hoped…” Brienne shrugged. “And I did not know you do not want anymore children-,”

“Who told you that?” he demanded.

She gaped at him. “You did. Just now. You said-,”

“I said I did not want anymore _bastards_ , Brienne. I do not want any more children born without my name. Children I could not claim as my own. Of course I want children. I want a whole keep of _trueborn_ children.” He put his hand behind her head and pulled her closer. “With you. Only with you. And only when this is over and we have won the war and saved the world for them.”

She smiled at him, sapphire eyes on his mouth. “I agree. Hence, the moon tea.”

He laughed. “I am glad you knew to drink it.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t. Maester Tarly thought it wise to begin drinking it, along with the other remedies for my recovery. He can be very frank, in his own way. He told me it only a matter of time before we found ourselves… _here_.” She held up their hands and Jaime remembered his first encounter with Samwell Tarly. When she lowered their hands and glanced at him, Jaime saw Brienne’s smirk, her eyes glinting. “And besides, we _all_ know how _reckless_ you are, ser. Running off to White Harbor! Maester Tarly knew _I_ would have to be the one to save us from ourselves.”

“Did he now, wench?” With a roar, Jaime tackled her into the bed, both laughing.

“Yes, he did. And I did, too.”

“Gods bless him.” Jaime reached down, removed her leg from her small clothes and threw it somewhere in the room. She cupped his face between her large hands.

“I love you, Jaime Lannister.” Her eyes searched his for the same.

He swallowed, near freezing at that word. “I know you do, Brienne. I know you do.”

“Will you not say it?”

He shook his head, a slight turn and bit into his lower lip. Like her. His Brienne. “I can’t, my lady. Not yet. That word is still too tied up with… _her_.” He sighed and dropped his mouth to hers for a quick kiss. “I just need time.”

She nodded and pulled him down for a deeper kiss, a wetter, hotter, sucking kiss, the tips of their tongues swirling, rubbing against the others before Jaime moved to wetting and sucking her nipples. He moved his hot mouth from one glistening peak to the other, his hand replacing his mouth when he did, to pull and rub the tight buds with his fingers and knuckles. She gasped as he played with her nipples, rolling them around on his tongue. Brienne never stopped shifting her fingers through his hair and he slid lower, first to kiss and suckle the soft skin of her strong stomach and thighs then to lick and tease the pink and swollen nub waiting for his mouth. Brienne tasted of them both. She fisted her hands in his hair, hooked her leg around his shoulder and Jaime felt the heel of her foot against his back. His tongue licked and lapped and sucked the nub as he curled one then two fingers inside her. She writhed in an ancient rhythm that only bodies in pleasure know, moaned his name, bucked her hips against his sucking, licking, teasing mouth. Her passage sucked on his fingers with the same greed as it did his cock and Jaime almost came from wanting to be inside her. He asked that she release him just to spoon out some wetness and rubbed it along his rigid shaft, the tip leaking with want for her. Then he slid two fingers back inside her tight, molten core and she greedily snatched them up inside her once more. Jaime knew she was close to shattering and he was determined to rub and suck until he felt her release. Before she did, Brienne stuffed a pillow between her teeth to muffle her screams. She held his fingers so tightly; Jaime could not pull them out. He waited for her shuddering spasms to pass, and when she did finally release him, Jaime was inside her in seconds, pumping in and out of her hot, tight passage while he waited for her to recover enough to grip his cock. He felt her move beneath him, felt her cunt quiver and stir and knew what he wanted, _needed_ from her.

“Please, my love,” he begged against her ear. “Again…please… _please_ milk me again…” and then she was gripping him, as before, milking him, sucking him, _fucking_ him and he was lost, taking her once more when he went.

A few seconds, later, as they came back to themselves, he grabbed her hair to look at him. He knew he was not as gentle as he should be and he did not care---he had to know that she heard his vow. Her eyes were still glazed and unfocused as they stared into his. “You are _mine_ , Brienne of Tarth,” he bit out between gasps, “only _mine_. And I am yours. Say it. Say it now, wench.” He kissed the long line of her neck, still holding her hair.

“I am yours and you are mine, mine, Jaime Lannister. _Mine_.”

_And I will kill anyone who comes between us…_

Unbelievably, he stirred again and she took him again, milking his cock for a third time inside her. Then they slept wrapped in a tangle of arms and legs until Pod called them to the Great Hall for supper through the door.

As they dressed, Jaime asked, “How did you learn to do…that… _squeezing_? With only your…body?”

He watched as she pulled her tunic over her head and vowed he could watch her dress and undress forever.

“Septa Roelle,” she smiled. “She told me those exercises would help with childbirth.”

“Truly?”

“Truly. She made me practice every time I relieved myself until I left Tarth. Then I continued during my time with...Renly.” Her smile slipped then brightened as she pulled on her breeches. “And especially after I left you in Riverrun.”

“When you left me in Riverrun? Why?”

“Because a camp follower in King Renly’s train once told me the reason she was so favored and sought by a high lord. She could do what I did to you. And it gave _her_ real pleasure, like it gave to you.” She came to stand before him, taking his hand in both of hers. “After I left you in Riverrun, I knew then, what I felt for you, Jaime. And I knew, if ever we saw each other again, if we were blessed to be spared, to be alive, it was only a matter of…time. And then I found myself waking up in your bed. And I knew our time had come.” Her smile bloomed like the brightest, biggest sunstar and he could not help but to return it.

He put her arms around his shoulders and drew her body against his. “Aye, it is our time. Though it seems Septa Roelle left out the part about pleasure.”

“Indeed. She was cruel and vicious and wouldn’t be Septa Roelle if she didn’t. But Seven Blessings to her anyway. At least she proved good for _something_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Whew! This is my first attempt at smut and it was a DOOZY to write!
> 
> *I wrote the smut way back in August---but still. Hard as FUCK to write!
> 
> *Shout out to all my Smut Experts: like any great writing, it truly is an art and a gift for crafting good smut and I am in awe of those with this talent!
> 
> *I did my best, ya'll! I hope you enjoyed it and it was worth the journey!
> 
> *I'll post the next chapter tomorrow (I promise!)! I know it's been over a month since the last chapter but life  
> comes at you fast, lol!
> 
> *And last but not least, thank you to everyone still reading and commenting and enjoying my chapters! THANK YOU!


	19. As the Dragon Flies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which plans are revealed, promises broken and vows made...

Summer yipped, tossing his head with impatience.

Even after this morning’s battle, the taste of the wights still lingered on the direwolf’s tongue. Summer licked his lips and locked eyes with the tall man through the dying gray light of midday.  

He hungered to taste blood pumping through living flesh.

Summer nipped at the bar across the wide gate and again eyed the stern-voiced man.

Master Borrick wet his dry mouth, shifting beneath the weight of the beast’s golden eyes. “Let them out, Gerod.”

“Are you certain, master? They have not been allowed to hunt since one brought back those dead… _hands._ ” The boy shuddered through the last word, a gulp passing deep inside his chest.

Kennel master Borrick stared at the three direwolves pawing at the barred Hunter’s Gate. They circled before the gate, soft growls rumbling from their throats. His own hounds cowered around his mud-caked boots like frightened pups.

“I am certain. His Grace says the beasts grow restless and need to hunt.” He glanced at his dogs. “And these beasts make my hounds more skittish everyday.”

“But Master Borrick! If a White Walker can bind a horse, can it not control a wolf? What if-,”

“Orders, Gerod!” Master Borrick bellowed. “From his Grace himself. Besides, they are direwolves, not hounds or even horses bred for a life among men. For a thousand years, their sires were born and lived beyond the Wall. No doubt they still have knowledge of these eldritch daemons.” Master Borrick raised higher the stiff collar of his cloak. “And when the wind grows too sharp, they will find their way home, like any beast of good thought.” He glanced at Summer once more. “Open the gate, boy!”

With a ducking of his head, Gerod cracked open the gate. Before he could pull it wider, Summer, Ghost and Shaggy Dog slid through the slivered opening of the ironwood gate, free at last.

Tasting, feeling, smelling the brisk wind, Summer ran across the open field, pushed and pulled by a thousand different scents bursting all around him: a warren of voles hiding beneath a clump of snow, the warm spoor of a winter fox, the layers of life waiting underground for a spring that may never come.

Summer sniffed again, an image rising in his mind.

And from a great distance, the fresh tang of… _blood_.

He glanced at his brothers and knew they smelled it, too.

The direwolves ran, chasing the wind and the scent, wide paws spreading across the deep snow, keeping them aloft on the crusty surface as they ran through the field and deeper into the Wolfswood.

At the foot of a great ironwood tree, antlers jutted up from the forest floor. A great mound of a stag knelt in the snow, stumbling and staggering to rise from where it crouched.

From its leg, crimson drops stained the snow.

The rich scent almost brought him to a stop.

There was blood here, yes.

The beast’s eyes rolled loosely in their sockets.

And a darkness beneath it.

Ghost and Shaggy Dog loped faster. Snow flew from their paws, trailing white dust behind them.

Summer yelped out a warning for them to stop. The beast may still fight, he cautioned, its antlers like a spear through their sides. But his brothers sped on, driven by the smell of fresh blood that called to him even as his fur rose in warning.

Reaching it first, Ghost and Shaggy Dog circled the great stag. It proved immense, near as big in length and wider than Summer, the antlers thick, the ends sharp. Rough fur along its stout hooves sprawled in the snow in long hanks. It moaned and seemed to lunge at the snarling direwolves but it wobbled about on shaking legs, flailing its antlers from side to side as the crouching wolves slid closer. A bloody gash leaked from a leg.

The stag moaned again and foam frothed from its slackened mouth.

Shaggy Dog moved first, keeping low and flat. He darted in close, snapping at the beast’s wounded heel. The stag whirled to attack but it proved too slow.

In a flash of white, Ghost leapt onto the stag, his fangs sinking deep into the broad neck.

The stag tried to throw Ghost but its eyes slid back into its skull. With a bleating shudder, the deer thudded to the ground. Blood and steam poured from a seam torn along the stag’s throat. Once down, Ghost and Shaggy Dog set upon the stag, its spindly legs giving listless kicks as life and blood drained into the snow. Only the sound of the wolves ripping, tearing through flesh filled the quiet wood.

Summer turned golden eyes on the antlers.

A strange vision sprang to his mind, a memory of a jagged piece of horn broken deep into a direwolf’s throat. He blinked and saw seven mewling cubs nosing at cold, pink teats that would not feed them.

Summer glared at those antlers, knowing he one of those hungry cubs and the dead direwolf, his mother.

Perhaps, if she still here, she could sing to him of the hidden smell tinged with blood, of the danger and darkness in its name.

But they came that day, his boy and the others, pulling Summer and his litter mates from her stiffened side by their scruffs, wrapping them inside warm cloaks, smelling of man.

A long pink tongued snaked from the beast’s open mouth and rested heavy on the new snow.

Ghost tore it from the beast’s hanging lips in a snapping, gulping snarl.

On cue, Shaggy dog ripped open another seam, heat rising from the tender belly.

Summer watched his brother nose inside the deer’s warm center, saw him crush through the dripping heart and heard the entrails calling to him in an ancient song of blood and survival.

But something proved wrong, the notes not quite right.

Summer sniffed again.

The stag smelled of a man’s hand.

Summer raised his snout and cried out a warning to his feasting brothers but they ignored him, tearing through the stag with ripping, sawing teeth, teeth honed by nature for such bloody work. Ghost paused to raise his head, the red fur around his white mouth stained the same ruby color as his eyes. Ghost tore a chunk from the stag’s flank and tossed it at the feet of his golden-eyed brother.

A chant began in Summer’s mind, a warring duet crying for his attention. The smell of man hid below the lure of living blood, the smell of danger---and something darker.

Summer watched his brothers for any signs of sickness but they remained on their feet, alert and sharp in all ways. Summer tossed the meat with his nose. He rolled it around in the snow, as if washing the smell from the bloody hunk. It dyed the snow a deep, bright red.

Shaggy Dog, eyes bright with lust, glared at Summer and stalked forward, mouth slavering, eyes intent on the choice cut at Summer’s paws.

Summer looked up and a deep growl pulsed from his throat.

They ate well before the fires of the Stone House, gnawing through pig bones and such. But the food was never this fresh, this warm, this… _alive_.

Shaggy Dog curled back his black lips in a snarl.

Summer snapped up the steak in a gulp, the burst of blood sliding warm down his throat, filling his stomach. He licked free the last tang of blood from his muzzle.

He wanted more.

 _Much_ more.

And this want made him dangerous.

Summer, quiet, steady Summer, with the quiet, golden eyes, whirled on Shaggy Dog, the younger wolf slinking backward on lowered haunches before his brother’s sharp teeth. A million years of hunting overrode Summer’s alarm, the song of blood too deep and seducing to ignore. Summer gorged and gorged until he forgot his warning of man and the dangers always coming from the long, bright, sharp teeth in their hands.

Between the three wolves, they nearly stripped the great stag clean, cracking the long thigh bones between their powerful jaws to suck free the sweet marrow inside as the thin light slid into early twilight. Dried blood coated the fur around their muzzles and they washed their snouts in a nearby stream. Shaking themselves dry, they set off for the Stone House with full, tight bellies. They ran and ran through the Wolfswood, running for the line beyond the trees.

Summer gasped.

In but a moment, his hearing became muffled, his eyes blurred. His heart hammered against the broad bones of his chest.

It even missed its beat.

His stomach burned, as if lit by fire.

He kept running, running for Bran, for the Stone House, gasping, but he felt his breath, his mind slowing.

Finally, he staggered to a stop. Summer breathed in gulps, as if underwater. He tried to look for his brothers, tried to swivel his head to see their eyes but instead he swayed and crumpled to his side.

He tried to howl, to scream out a warning but all he heard was a faint, buzzing whine.

He never smelled them, these men, hiding behind the cutting wind.

His golden eyes slid closed.

But not before he saw the thick pink scar, the pale skin, the black hair. The man knelt in front of him and croaked something from deep inside his throat. Summer felt a hand stroking his neck from behind, the face hidden but the voice strong and clear.

Summer recognized more than the voice. Though it faint, he recognized the smell.

The same smell hiding beneath the hot, fresh blood.

“Thank you, Master Ustan,” the voice said, tossing the strange man a small leather pouch. “I was right to trust my instincts about you.” Master Ustan opened the buckskin strings of the lumpy bag, the coins clinking as he shook them about in his gloved hands. Looking up, blue eyes glinting, he muttered something with a wide smile.

“And there is more where there that came from,” said the voice. “Stay close, keep your eyes and ears open and come to me with any news or words from that carrytale Marbrand not discussed in open rooms. Trust my instincts as I trust in yours and I will make you a wealthy, powerful man.”

Master Ustan inclined his head in answer then turned, heading for the Stone House.

Summer felt gentle fingers on his neck. “Instincts, yes? You know all about them, hmm? You are a wild beast, after all, pretending, like me, to be tamed. For too long they’ve kept you locked behind their walls, fearing the White Walkers, letting you grow soft on the scraps from their table. I knew you could not resist such a warm, bloody prize,” the voice soothed. “As I knew you would ignore the smell rubbed into the fur of that deer, that great snout trained for the scent of living blood.” He paused in his stroking to giggle. “They should have let you hunt fresh kill for you are wolves, not dogs. That mistake will prove their undoing.”

Summer answered with a thin growl.

More men appeared, Eagles on their chests, ropes and long poles and dark tarps in their hands.

“Sh, sh,” the voice hushed with a firm pat. “Give in to the potion, like your brothers. Wolfsbane! A perfect name, don’t you think? And when you awake, if I did not misjudge the measurements, your new home will be a cell. Unless the little wolves make me angry. Then your new home will be as a mount on the walls of the Great Hall.” Summer heard the smile in the man’s voice, his small fingers gentle in their long strokes through his fur. Summer tried to turn and savage his gloved hand but his head fell back to the cold ground. “Careful of those sharp teeth, my drowsy wolf. I’ve always admired your pelt above your brothers. It would look magnificent thrown around my shoulders.”

“What shall we tell them we carry, my lord?” came a voice.

His hands never ceased, Summer’s growl proving no more than a whimper. “First, try to move undetected. But if asked, tell them we carry three deer for a feast. And tell them I will dress the great beasts myself, in honor of the Starks and their gracious king. Keep them covered and guarded at all times until tonight. And hide their tracks.”

“Aye, my lord.”

The man stepped over Summer. He turned and knelt, bringing his smiling face so close to Summer’s own. ‘You did not smell us on the air, yes? We hid and I prayed and prayed the winds did not shift.” His green-gray eyes sparkled. “And it seems my prayers answered. Yes, it is true. Sometimes, even _I_ must resort to chance or prayer.”

Summer closed his eyes, sinking into the darkness.

_Chance or prayer._

He saw his boy peering into his face, so long ago, his cheeks rounded with baby fat, when his boy still had his legs.

_Chance or prayer._

He struggled to rise above the darkness, remember his boy’s name, trying to call for him now across the distance.

_Chance…_

It came to him at last.

 _Bran_. _Danger. Cold teeth. Bran!_

But the darkness proved stronger than his love, covering him like earth in the deepest grave.

 

************************************************************************

 

Jaime and Brienne walked from the Guest House through the quiet of the yard. As they walked, their blue and smoked-gray armored shoulders pressed into the others, the tips of their gloved fingers met and brushed over the scabbard of Lion’s Heart.

If he died tonight, seventh heaven would be an endless night of her bright eyes and their love-making.

He looked at Brienne and wondered if she thought the same.

Jaime’s eyes saw naught but the shy smile Brienne failed to smother beneath her large teeth. From a distance he heard hammers and shouts as a small troop of men and women worked to raise the wall and repair the breach made by the White Walker’s blast. Progress had been made but the press of wights still slipped through, climbing over the stone hedge faster than could be killed. Jaime squeezed Brienne’s blunt fingers and pushed from his mind a heap of Stark and Wilding bodies burned after last night’s battle. The Eagles joined the battle but never seemed in the van, preferring, though their numbers much larger, to fight from the rear. Not long ago, Jaime and Brienne passed Petyr Baelish on their way to Maester Tarly’s library, the sneering Vale knight Ser Aric a wound spring at the little man’s side. Petyr meant to keep walking but Jaime blocked his path. He noticed Ser Aric’s quick hand on the hilt of his sword. Without a glance between them, Brienne rested her hand on the head of Oath Keeper.

“Lord Baelish, a word?” said Jaime, his voice clipped and sharp.

“Forgive me, Ser Jaime, but I am late for a meeting with King Jon.” Littlefinger stepped around Jaime and right into the thick wall of Brienne.

“Lord Baelish,” she said. He tone proved twin to Jaime’s. “Ser Jaime seeks only but a moment.”

Petyr’s eyes slid to Ser Aric. He gave the man a quick nod. “Fine. A moment is all I can spare. What is it, Ser Jaime?”

“In your spare moment, I will come to the point. Why are there no Knights of the Vale in the van?”

Baelish gave them both a nervous giggle. “You ask _me_ , _Commander_ Lannister, of battle tactics and stratagems? I thought all soldiers were under orders of their commanders and as such, go where they are told.”

Brienne squinted at Littlefinger. “So _you_ are not telling them to fight from the rear?”

“Me?” he asked again, a hand on his narrow chest. “Goodness, no, my dear lady! I feel it best to leave battle plans to those in battle. What do I know of what is needed while I hide in the crypts?” Brienne turned her squinted gaze on Jaime.

“As you say, Lord Baelish,” Jaime replied. “But when we plan tactics, ensure _your_ soldiers understand to move more Vale forces to the van, it is as if they have forgotten how to follow orders. For they are following _someone’s_ orders, Lord Baelish. Just not _ours_.”

Petyr Baelish sniffed, adjusting the lapis eagle on his lapel. “I take umbrage, Ser Jaime, _great_ umbrage at your suggestion that the Knights of the Vale are still _my_ soldiers and these _my_ orders to fight from the rear. We _all_ serve at the pleasure of the King in the North, Jon Snow. I suggest you take up any issues with the chain of command with him.” He turned on his boot’s heel. “Good day to you both. And may you prove victorious in tonight’s battle.”

“He is lying,” Jaime snarled later that day in Jon’s solar. “He is ordering his Knights to retreat, let Stark and Wildings bear the brunt of battle. But why? If we fall, if we fail, he falls, too.”

The boy released a sigh from deep in his chest. “I will make clear all soldiers under command by my commanders must follow orders. Failure to follow commands will result in exile or execution.”

“We all fight for Winterfell,” Brienne said with a nod. “We must all die for Winterfell.”

“Yes,” agreed Jon, turning to face his large window. “Your words none more truer than for me.”

“Hell, boy!” Jaime neared roared. “The best method to kill a snake is to chop of the thrice-damned head! I will run him through and be done with it!”

Jon exchanged a look with his Hand and the old smuggler pursed his lips. “No, Ser Jaime,” counseled Ser Davos. “There are too many Eagles and if we expel the Knights of the Vale, we will find both an army and wights at our gates.”

“But the enemy is already here, on his belly through these halls!”

“The answer is no, Ser Jaime!” said Jon. “No! I do not trust Lord Baelish either but I cannot kill him! He helped us defeat the Boltons and there proves no honor in turning on our ally!”

Jaime near halved his tongue to stop from blurting, _“And it was honor that killed your father and brother, stupid boy!”_ A glare from Brienne told Jaime she knew his mind but shook her head for his silence.

But what Jon said next in a low voice truly surprised Jaime into to quiet.

“Lady Brienne, Ser Jaime, please listen. No one knows of this save Ser Davos,” the boy whispered. “But I have made terms with Lord Tyrion. He has interrogated the remaining Lords Declarant of the Vale and long suspects Littlefinger is behind the deaths of Jon and Lysa Arryn and planted the seeds for discord and strife throughout all of Westeros. When the Dragon arrives, she plans to take him into custody and try him for his crimes.” Jon slid his eyes to his Hand. “Ser Davos cautions me against trusting or underestimating Lord Tyrion, remembering the defeat of Stannis’ fleet in the Blackwater but he proved kind to me at the Wall. I trust your brother, Ser Jaime. He knows me and knows Littlefinger and knows who between us has honor. He has even promised no harm will come to you, though how he convinced Danaerys to spare your life, he would not say. But until the dragons arrive, we need Lord Baelish’s swords and men. So please,” he said with a twisting smile, “refrain from pricking him with Lion’s Heart until then.”

Jaime and Brienne left the warmth of the king’s solar, not needing to promise no word would be spoken of Jon’s pact with Tyrion.

“She will spare your life?” Brienne whispered at the hearth in his room. He heard hope and more in her question.

“So it would seem.”

“Do you trust him? Your brother? After the trial and Joffrey and… _everything_?”

He did need to guess at what she meant. “I do not know, Brienne. He is both my brother and a Lannister.” When she looked at him he could only shrug. “Tyrion would know what I mean. In our family, these sort of things prove... _complicated_.”

“Thank gods I’m not a Lannister,” she scoffed.

“Oh, not so fast, Wench,” he drawled, gathering her in his arms. “You will be.” He kissed her before the fire. “You already have the hair.” Soon her protest turned to a sigh as she opened her mouth for his tongue and softened against him.

But Jaime did wonder if Ser Davos proved right and if they erred in trusting the slippery words of his cunning brother.

That night, before the soldiers of Winterfell, torches casting long, deep shadows in the yard around them, Jon called out his order that all commands be obeyed.

And so they were, more broken bodies of Eagles for once burned beside Wolves and Free Folk.

But not long after Jon’s decree, Jaime could not help but notice fewer and fewer Eagles stood beside him as he fought.

Now the Eagles seemed everywhere Jaime glanced: In the long corridors, in the rowdy barracks, in the yards and tonight, in the Great Hall as he climbed the stairs to the dais. A few Stark bannermen, Wildings and women and children tucked into their plain rations at the long tables. Brandon caught his eye as Jaime passed.

“Ser Jaime. Have you seen Summer?”

Jaime peered down at the boy, patting the russet curls on the young man’s head. “No, Brandon. Your wolf returned after last night’s battle, yes?”

“Yes,” the boy answered, sadness lowering his voice. “But Jon allowed them to hunt today, saying they grew restless from being kept behind our walls. I relented but now…” Bran bit his lip. “I cannot… _reach_ him. It is as if he has… _disappeared_.”

Jaime knelt now beside the boy. “ _Disappeared?_ There is no trace of Summer or the others?”

“Some wildling rangers found the remains of a stag deep inside the Wolfswood. They say the direwolves brought it down. But there are no tracks leading them deeper into the wood or back to Winterfell. Jon and Rickon are not worried but…this proves _strange,_ even to me. I can _always_ reach Summer.”

Jaime stared at the boy. “Your doors-,”

“Will not open. I have tried to look for them. But they will not open, Ser Jaime.”

 _I like this not at all_ , Jaime thought, turning his gaze from Brandon. His eyes settled on Lord Baelish, whispering as always to Sansa Stark. Jaime rose and looked down at the beetled brow of Bran.

“They will be found, Bran, I am sure of it. Summer is a part of you.” He glanced at Brienne now seated and talking with a grinning Nyo. Nyo looked over Brienne’s shoulder to throw Jaime a wink. He felt his cheeks burn though he too smiled. “And you would know if that part left you forever.”

Bran said nothing, only biting his lips with a slow nod. Beneath the table, Meera Reed clasped Bran’s hand.

Jaime murmured greetings to Howland Reed, Rickon and Arya Stark, Gendry Waters and over the head of Nusu Nyo, Addam Marbrand.

Ser Addam raised his tankard of ale along with his fiery eyebrows.

Jaime raised one shoulder, smiled and said nothing.

A grin broke through Addam’s beard and he drained his cup to the last drop.

Jaime sat and within a breath, reached to cover Brienne’s warm, broad hand with his own. After Jon Snow and Ser Davos bounded up the stairs, Ghost missing from the boy’s side, the first platters were brought from the kitchens and in front of Brienne, a serving boy placed a steaming mug.

“To our keep full of babes,” she whispered to him beneath noise.

He leaned against her murmuring, “To our keep full of golden, blue-eyed cubs.”

Jaime watched her smile, bringing the moon tea to her full lips.

The mug flew from her hand, the scalding tea splattering across her breastplate.

Between startled blinks, the serving boys and men pulled blades from beneath their aprons, their gleaming points aimed at heads and throats. All around him, the Great Hall fell to silence. Jaime heard the slither of steel releasing from hidden scabbards. More men ran up the stairs of the platform, flanking the armed soldiers.

After the shock, the long silence, a giggle rose to the rafters.

“Well done, Ser Aric!” came a voice from the dais, a chair scraping back. Jaime closed his eyes, ground his teeth against the man’s glee. Petyr Baelish stood to take in the room before sitting back down.

“How could you?” Jaime heard Sansa stammer, her voice thick with tears.

“Easily,” came Petyr’s reply, almost bored. “My script for tonight's drama? The Red Wedding. Wait for the final act, my lady. I promise a new twist. **REMOVE THEM FROM THE DAIS**!”

Rough hands yanked Jaime from his seat, forcing his arm behind his back, snatching Lion’s Heart from his waist, his eyes wild as they seized Brienne and Oath Keeper.

“No!” Jaime screamed, straining against his captors. “ ** _NO!_** ”

“Oh, yes!” snarled Littlefinger. “Line them before the dais!”

His men forced them into line.

The doors burst open and for a moment, Jaime felt a lifting in his heart.

But it was only a red-eyed Samwell Tarly and his stone-faced wife Gilly, little Samwell crying and clinging to his mother’s skirts. Behind them marched trussed up Podrick Payne and more Vale soldiers and their swords. The guards forced them into the line.

“Good. Now. Make them kneel!”

Grunts, screams, curses sounded from the line as knees were kicked, legs swept aside to make them bend. Behind him, Jaime heard the scrape of a chair once more than the click of well-heeled boots slow to take the stairs. He came into view, Petyr Baelish, and stood for a moment, facing the crowd cowering beneath the Vale swords. The room filled with the clang of Longclaw, Sunfire, daggers gathered in piles. Ser Aric handed to Petyr Baelish Jon’s blade. Then with a slow pivot, Littlefinger spun and smirked at the nobles, pursing his thin lips and tutting before turning to a glaring Jon Snow. “A word of caution, bastard, if I may?” Baelished leaned close, a mocking whisper in the boy’s ear. “An invited army may soon prove an occupying force.” He gave a dainty shrug and looked at Longclaw. “Especially if their swords greatly outnumber your own. You are far too trusting, as was your dead father and brother, bastard.” Petyr rose from Jon with a smile. “I thought you smarter. Yet, how utterly _Stark_ you prove.”

Jaime near broke free from the hands pinning him to the ground. “ **You lying, treacherous, whore-mongering** -,”

“Silence the Kingslayer, at once!”

A vicious blow caught Jaime across the jaw. He tasted blood where he bit his tongue.

Petyr walked to Jaime, once more taking his time. “Perhaps this will silence you for good. I have word from your sweet, _little_ brother.”

Jaime spat near Baelish’s gleaming boots, the smaller man skittering back from the red slime. “You are a liar, Littlefinger. Why should I believe one word hissing from your forked tongue?”

“Do you need proof? I have it right here, Kingslayer. Your arrest warrant from the Queen’s own Hand, Tyrion Lannister.”

“You lie, Littlefinger.”

“Indeed I do, often, and with _great_ skill. But not about this.” Petyr Baelish handed Longclaw to Ser Aric and reached deep inside his sleeve. He removed a small scroll. He opened the rolled parchment and shoved the smooth, firm vellum into Jaime’s view. “Does the writing look familiar, Ser Jaime? Yes? I see from that tight smile that it does.”

Jaime could not ignore Tyrion’s strong, sharp script, so much clearer than his own.

“Shall I read it, Ser Jaime, hmm? You have many gifts---looks, strength, the power behind your name---but reading, sadly, is not one of them. Allow me. Please.” With a smirk riding high in his voice, Petyr Baelish began to read the letter. “ _Lord Baelish. The Dragon will fly north. Expect us with the rising of the full moon, though we told the usurper sooner. As a show of your fealty to Queen Danaerys Targaryen---First of her Name, the Stormborn, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, the Myhasa of Meereen, The Great Khalees of the Grass Sea, Queen of the Andals and rightful ruler of the First Men---she commands that Jon Snow, the pretender to her throne and bastard whelp of the traitor Eddard Stark, be taken into custody, unharmed and unmolested, along with any and all nobles in the Stark affinity, including the oath-breaker Jaime Lannister, known throughout the Seven Kingdoms as the Kingslayer for his treacherous murder of the lawful ruler and liege-lord of Westeros, the Queen’s blessed father, King Aerys Targaryen. All justice flows from the Queen’s mighty hand and the Kingslayer shall answer for his crimes against the Targaryens and the Iron Throne. Do as she commands and you shall be rewarded for your loyalty.” _

Petyr paused to raise his voice.

 _“Let all hear now the Queen’s warning! Betray the Dragon at your own foolish peril. For what measure you mete shall be measured to you---in fire and blood._ ” Petyr Baelish lifted his eyes with a smile. “ _Tyrion Lannister, Lord Paramount of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock and Hand of the Queen.”_ Littlefinger rolled up the parchment in a tight snap. “So you see, Ser Jaime. I am but a loyal servant and must serve the queen. My orders,” he said lifting the scroll, “ written in your sweet brother’s flowing hand.”

“No. You are what you have ever been, a worm that I will grind into the dirt, you devious-,”

“Silence!” Once more a guard struck his jaw, once more blood exploded in his mouth. Littlefinger looked at Jaime, his lips curling in a thin sneer as his voice dropped to a hissing growl. “If you threaten me again, Kingslayer, I will give to my new queen a most unusual gift. Your _other_ hand. Or perhaps, Lady Brienne’s?”

Jaime glared at the man, his eyes hot with rage but said nothing. Instead, he spat again, staring and silent with his curses. Baelish turned, now fixing Jon Snow and Davos Seaworth with glittering eyes. “You were not the only two sending words under the cover of darkness, bastard. I laughed at the reports of your nightly farce, playing at statecraft and cyvasse with two cripples and an onion smuggler. If only I were invited. I would have told you gold buys the sharpest eyes, not honor.” Petyr dipped his chin, glancing at Master Ustan, and deepened his smile. The strange man patted the pouch at his side. “A truth you Starks never seem to learn.”

Addam Marbrand shook his head, the lips beneath his bright beard snarled in disgust.

Jon dropped his head and Baelish turned to Arya and Brandon. “Ah, our little warg and skinchanger. My spies report how you both _love_ entering into the minds of man and beast.”

“Where are they, Lord Baelish?” sputtered Brandon. “What have you done with our wolves? I have tried to find Summer, to find his brothers. What have you done with our wolves?”

“Fear not, my princeling. Those cursed dogs will remain drugged and locked and chained in the kennels. There is a new kennel master now, one _I_ trust. And if I or any of my men act in the _least_ bit like ourselves, that frog-eating slut Meera Reed and the black-haired bastard will die before your very eyes. Do not cross me!” his voice rang out. “Obey my commands and all the Wolves may survive as hostages to the Queen.” Baelish slid his eyes once more to Jaime Lannister. Petyr’s smile turned to ice. “But you heard the justice coming due in your brother’s warning, Kingslayer. The Lannisters always pay their debts, hmm? And I’m afraid _you_ will pay with blood.”

“ _No_!” Brienne screamed, heaving to break free. “Tyrion would _never_ allow Danerys to murder his brother!” Three Vale soldiers struggled to hold her still. One of them fisted his hand in her hair, yanking her head back to stare bug-eyed at the ceiling. Jaime strained to reach her, naming the Vale henchmen as fuckers of their own mothers, but two guards at his shoulders held him in place. Two more leveled the points of their swords at his neck and right eye.

Littlefinger whipped his head to Brienne. “Enough! Release that _nest_ she calls hair. But try to break free again and I will instruct my soldiers to make you uglier than you already prove.”

Brienne opened her mouth to speak.

“She is right, Littlefinger,” called Jaime, drawing him away from Brienne. “Do not dare presume to know my brother’s mind.”

“Oh, but I _do_ , Ser Jaime. For what could a man like _you_ know of his thoughts, hmm? What do you know of being overlooked, discounted, unwanted? All this time and you still do not know your own kin, Kingslayer. While you festered in your own shit, held in the Riverlands by that _fool_ Robb Stark, I observed your brother as Joffrey’s Hand. And I will tell you of my examination, ser, for there is only this to tell. There is nothing--- _nothing_ \---Tyrion loves more than that little trinket on his stooped shoulder. That silver hand shows all the world how high and mighty he has _finally_ grown.” He giggled at his crude jest before flipping his eyes to Brienne. “So, yes, Tyrion Lannister will carry out the Queen’s justice and if the Imp can lift the sword, he will do it himself.” He leaned down as if to whisper in her ear. “And your Kingslayer’s golden head will roll across this floor and he will join once more with Cersei. And their bed will lie in the hottest of hells. Courtesy of their own sweet brother.” He straightened and brushed back a few strands of white-blonde hair sticking to Brienne’s damp brow. “For Tyrion Lannister loves _power_ , my giantess. He always did. More, even, than his own flesh and blood.” Petyr beamed, his gray-green eyes bright. “You will see.”

“You will _die_!” Arya shouted, almost launching free of her guards.

With a roar, Lord Baelish took six steps, curled his hand into a fist and struck her across the mouth. Gendry cursed and a Vale soldier clamped the crook of his elbow against Gendry’s neck, choking the rest of his threats into a grunting, wheezing silence. Blood glistened on Littlefinger’s soft glove as he looked at a fuming, unblinking Arya Stark. With a flourish, Petyr wiped his hand on Arya’s tunic then with a flick of Baelish’s fingers, the man released Gendry. Another soldier pulled back his head and a knife glinted over the bobbing knot in the middle of Gendry’s throat.

“Jon Snow? I gave warning. A word to your sister?”

“Arya! Please! Stop fighting and do as he says!”

A pink tongue darted from between Arya’s lips to lick the blood pooling at the side of her mouth, wincing as it brushed against the deep cut. But her gaze burned through a smiling Lord Baelish.

“Good boy,” Littlefinger purred. “You heard the bastard. You will do as I say or you will watch Robert’s by-blow die.” Petyr Baelish swept all those captured in a circling glance. “Any one else care to voice their… _grievances_?”

All remained silent.

“As I thought. You prove wiser already. Take them to the deepest cells.”

Jerked to their feet, they shuffled from the Great Hall, arms twisted behind their backs, heads forced to look at the ground as they stumbled forward. Four Vale soldiers trained spears on Hodor’s broad back, the big man whimpering and blinking through tears, whispering his name in a chant. Once they stood outside in the cold, dark corridor, Petyr Baelish called, “Halt!”

The soldiers stopped at once, their prisoners with them. Master Ustan sidled up and stood beside Littlefinger.

Petyr Baelish gestured an arm toward the Great Hall. The small folk huddled and cringed before the Eagles and their pointed blades. “I wonder,” said Littlefinger, standing before Jon Snow, “which one of these fools will try to free you, Jon Snow?”

“Lord Baelish, please,” whispered Sansa. “For the love you bore my mother, please spare them! They are innocents, they will obey your commands-,”

“Hush, my sweetling.” He put a slim finger against her full lips, stilling her plea. “I have not forgotten about you.” Lord Baelish gathered her oval face in both hands, staring deep into her brimming eyes. Sansa’s tears snaked down her high cheekbones. “I have no worries but they will obey my commands. As you will, too.” Baelish brought her lips to his own, not bothering to conceal his lust as his tongue searched her mouth. Sansa recoiled, tried to pull away from his touch but the sword at her back held her in place. Petyr pulled her closer, deepening the kiss. He finished with a nip on her lower lip, his mouth glistening, Sansa’s mottled and bruised. The cold corridor filled with the girl’s soft cries. “You will welcome my kisses and more, little cat. As a token of my fealty, Queen Danaerys will dissolve Lady Sansa’s marriage to the Imp and I will rule Winterfell as Wardens of the North and East and Sansa Stark’s lawful husband.”

Sansa’s shoulders wracked with sobs.

“My sister will never love you,” Jon pushed through clenched teeth.

“No,” smiled Petyr Baelish. “But I have never needed love. Love or fear, disgust or desire, her long legs will open the same. And as for them,” Baelish said, angling his head toward the Great Hall, “remember this, your _Grace_. You _wanted_ to play the great game. And now your gamble, the throw of your dice, the lives of your people comes down to the point of _my_ swords.” Petyr Baelish, Littlefinger, the Master of Coin and sower of confusion stepped back, his eyes never leaving Jon Snow. “The Queen needs only the high-born nobles as hostages. My spies know the secret preparations of sunstar for the arrow tips. There prove more than enough Vale soldiers, knights and archers to hold Winterfell against the Others. And these wilding savages and mangy northern scum, just more hungry mouths to feed.”

Jon’s eyes widened in horror, his mouth slack. Jaime watched Jon’s knees buckle. Vale guards yanked the boy to his feet.

“No, Lord Baelish! Please, don’t-,”

“Kill them!” Littlefinger shrilled in Jon’s face. “Kill them all! Leave none alive!”

“No!” Jon shrieked. “ **NO! NO!** ”

The ironwood doors slammed shut.

Jaime heard Master Ustan’s quick rasping bleats to Baelish, his words sounding near to panic but with a laugh about gold, Littlefinger dismissed his worry and Ustan’s grumbles turned to silence.

They were dragged down the corridor, by their necks, by their arms. A soldier gave Gilly Tarly a vicious elbow to her jaw and dragged the girl by her hair, Gilly cursing in a hissing language from beyond the Wall. Another soldier held the Tarly boy in one arm as Little Sam beat the empty air with his fists and feet. Meera Reed kept calling for Bran until a guard slapped her into silence while her father twisted around his captors, calling for Jon and Meera. Rickon tried not to weep but he proved unsuccessful. Nyo and Addam, glanced at each other, held their peace but in their eyes, Jaime saw both love and blood.

Beneath the screams of Jon Snow and the sobbing of Sansa Stark, Jaime heard the wails and pleas from the Great Hall, the rumble of tables and chairs over turned, a long, yowling shriek then piercing silence.

Jaime closed his eyes and saw them pulled by their ankles from hiding places under long benches, huddling in dark corners, behind tapestries, blood running down bright, wicked swords, hands beating against the barred door.

Jaime’s eyes snapped open on the scream of a child.

_Go inside._

Jaime closed his eyes again and saw Cersei’s blade of a smile in the waiting darkness.

He opened his eyes, looked for Brienne, her stone face tight and splotched red.

 _He is dead,_ he whispered in his mind, to Brienne, coming back _._

_He is dead._

The Vale soldier behind Jaime called him a filthy curse, shoving his head down.

But not before he glanced into the eyes of Brienne of Tarth and Arya Stark.

Their dry eyes stared straight ahead, Brienne’s a bright, burning blue, Arya’s flat as a gray river stone.

A twisting smile rose up from his chest.

_Addam and Nyo and all of the north._

He was not the only one making this same vow.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Refrain from trusting that slattern.
> 
> \---Calvin Broadus, aka Snoop Dogg
> 
>  
> 
>  This was a tough nut to crack. Transitions between scenes are everything! I know it got bleak after so much love and smut but...Petyr Baelish is gonna Petyr Baelish.
> 
> Thank you to everyone still reading and leaving comments, feedback, encouragement, questions! 
> 
> THANK YOU!


	20. Fire and Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which there is so much DRAMA in the LBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time...I shouldn't have left you...(I guess I'm full of 90's hiphop and R&B references today)
> 
> I've had a health issue and while it's close to resolving, I've had to step away from the story to give it my full attention: And I know, what a time in the narrative to step away!
> 
> Full disclosure:  
> This chapter, too, is a cliffhanger but I hope to have the next chapter posted in days or weeks and not months!
> 
> Thanks for your comments and interest and challenging me to keep going, even when life throws you some curveballs, sliders and whatever else kinda pitches are thrown in baseball!
> 
> And thank you to Isola_Caramella for tugging on my sleeve like, "HELLO? McFly? WTF?"
> 
> Thank you, Sweetheart!

 

Jaime closed his eyes, gripping the pinch of flesh at the bridge of his slender nose with his pointer-finger and thumb.

It was the first full day of their capture in the cells of Winterfell.

In the darkness behind his closed eyes, Jaime kept hearing the screams and the pleas of the small folk echoing through his mind, the wailing cry of a babe silenced forever.

And over them all, as she did from the moment they were tossed into the dank cell, the needling, rasping curses of Arya Stark.

Jaime wondered if Brienne too kept hearing the dead and wounded small folk, seeing them butchered, the light of their lives stolen and snuffed in her stolid mind.

Jaime wanted, _needed_ to see the Wench, to hear her strong, clear voice calming the hair rising at the edge of his bent neck. He longed to feel along his nape the warmth of her broad, firm fingers.

But Brienne was kept two cells down from his with Rickon and Brandon Stark.

Through the thick bars holding Jaime once more a prisoner, Jon Snow and Meera Reed sat on opposite sides of another small cell, the rough stones biting into their hunched backs.

Addam Marbrand and Maester Tarly were housed two cells down in the other direction from Brienne and the Stark boys.

And on the first night, further still, Littlefinger imprisoned Nusu Nyo and Howland Reed somewhere in the musty, cold.

Now, the other side of his cell hosted a seething Gendry Waters and urgent but calm Davos Seaworth, the Stormlander whispering to Jaime through the thick rods. When Jaime remarked on the steadiness of his voice, Davos replied, “I’ve seen the Blackwater turn to a sea of green fire, my own sons burned and drowned beneath the flaming waves. Almost nothing can unseat me anymore, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime swallowed a bulge in his tight throat. “The Battle of the Blackwater. That was Tyrion’s cunning, as is this.”

“Aye, as is this.”

“And still you sought to treat with him.”

“We were at war, Ser Jaime, as now. Tyrion Lannister did what he must to save those he loved. I did the same. And we never met, never fought. It was never personal.”

Jaime swallowed again. “As is this.”

After a long silence, Davos spoke, clearing his throat to say, “According to her letters, Danaerys sends five fleets of Dothraki and Unsullied soliders from Gulltown to White Harbor, given leave by His Grace and Wyman Manderley. The king wrote to all the lords and ladies of the north, commanding them to stand down and let the Dragon and her army pass untouched. No army has ever won the north in winter, Ser Jaime. These northerners know every nook and cranny, every grumpkin and snark.” Jaime could hear the rue in the man’s smile. “Your brother knew this, knew the army of the Dragons could only pass if we allowed them. And we did. And now the Stark bannermen will never know it all a trick until they learn of our capture by the queen.” Just then, guards appeared, throwing open the doors to deliver Ser Davos a vicious slap.

“We said, shut it, you pissy bastard!”

They dragged the king’s Hand from the cell and replaced him with Howland Reed. A guard spat at Jaime through the bars.

“Hold your tongue, Kingslayer. Keep quiet less we make you both cripple and mute.”

The other guard laughed as they stomped down the dark corridor.

But Howland Reed could not keep quiet. The small man wandered about his cell muttering, “Now? Now, my friend? Or is it too late?”

A furtive glance told Jaime the guards gone and he whispered, “Too late for what? Another lie? Another massacre?” Howland Reed grew silent, saying no more though Jaime heard the patter of his small feet through the long night.

Soon after, Jaime thanked the gods for hearing Brienne’s muted voice somewhere in the dark, calming and soothing both Bran and Rickon.

But now, his lips moved over a silent, curse-ladened prayer to any and all gods, pleading with them to strike Arya Stark dumb in answer. Jaime paused, holding his breath for the miracle then with a deep sigh, opened his eyes and fixed them on Arya’s thin lips still twisting and snarling over her words. The girl moved through her eternal and inventive rebukes and ridicule as she moved through her form in the practice yard: fluid, fearless and committed to the killing blow. And right now, she proved committed to felling her target held captive in the same cell.

Sansa Stark sat huddled beneath her gray cloak, her knees to her chest, the hood drawn over her head, her wan face hidden in deep shadow. But from beneath the fur-trimmed cowl, Jaime heard Sansa’s whimpers, her cries for their mother and for mercy and through the long night and day, Arya proved she had none.

When Sansa lifted her drooping head to wipe the slime from her nose, Jaime glimpsed her sallow skin, sunken cheeks and the dark purple smudges pooling beneath her dull eyes. Whatever they saw lay beyond the stone walls of their cell and fresh tears sprang to her lashes, her cracked lips pleading, “No, no, no,” before dropping her head once more.

“Yes,” Arya grated between clenched teeth, “yes, you fool, you lying, preening sop, Nymeria gone, Lady dead because of you, because you trusted in _Joffrey_ , the same lying bastard that took our father’s head, that killed our Stark men, that beat you and humiliated you and would have raped you if only someone didn’t poison him first but did that make you wary, hmmm? Did that teach you caution, did that teach you to trust in no one, especially in the promises of Littlefinger, especially in no one not named Stark? No, you stupid cow, it didn’t. You turned to him with all of your little worries and your petty hurts and he turned them against you, used them to trap us, to ensnare us and kill our people.”

“He saved us,” Sansa mumbled to her knees. “He answered the call when all others ignored us. He took me from King’s Landing, hid me from Cersei Lannister, let me leave with Lady Brienne-,”

“All to use your name, you fool, force you to his bed and wring children out of you. And when he has his heirs, when your hair is dull and dry, your eyes red from crying through the night and sleeping through the days, when you are old and ugly and worn down to a nubbin from his cruelty and he has slapped loose the very teeth in your mouth, what will he do with you then, _little cat_ , hmm? What do you think will happen to you? Your brothers will be dead or scattered to the corners of the kingdoms as hostages. I will be dead for never will I suffer to any claim on me not by our gods. But what of you, hmm? Will the children he molds in his likeness, with their glinting eyes and sly smiles and tricks save you, yes? Or will turn their back on their own mother, forgetting you even matter, you even exist?”

“But if there are children, they will be my children, too. They will love me, honor me-,”

“He won’t let them!” Arya roared. “He will never allow you near them as soon as they slide from your cunny! They will be _his_ children, Sansa, as Winterfell _his_ castle, the north, _his_ lands! You are but his prized breeding cow! And when he is done,” her voice dropped to an iced whisper, “when he had squeezed every last drop of milk from your teats, he will not turn you out to a quiet pasture to live out your lonely days. No, no, he will put a quarrel through your chest or flavor your porridge with poison and marry some chit of a child the next morn. All because you in trusted the words of a liar. How, Sansa? How could you be so blind, so stupid-,”

“Enough.”

Arya whipped her head to Jaime, her gray eyes sparks from flint rock. “What did you say?”

Jaime met her hard gaze and did not blink. “Enough, girl. She has heard enough. I have heard enough. All of us, locked in these damned cells, have heard enough of your-,”

“Truth. It is truth I tell. And it is never enough to hear it.”

“The truth?” Jaime scoffed. “The truth, you say? And will the truth spring us from this cell, girl? Will it free us, magick us from these walls? You are angry, Arya. As am I and everyone who watched him, heard him murder the small folk seeking shelter and safety here at Winterfell. You are angry and shouting things you do not mean. But save your anger for the one that killed them. And his name is not Sansa Stark.”

“No,” she said kneeling to peer at Jaime. “His name is Petyr Baelish but _sh_ e put the dagger in his hand.”

“Forgive her. She craved what we all crave, loyalty, protection, love-,”

“We love her!”

Jaime tilted his head then shook it. “This is love, girl? The words you whisper and scream at your sister are not the words of love but of hate. Recounting her short-comings, your judgments, your scorn-,”

“It is true! We are here because-,”

“Yes and I know those same words, Arya. _You never make anything better_. Those words Cersei said to me, when I sailed to Dorne, tried to save Myrcella. And I failed to save my daughter so I believed her words true. And then I failed to save Weasel and again, I believed her words true. But then I saved Riverrun from ruin, and a small boy bid me open the gates of King’s Landing and so I did, saving the small folk from fire and blood. And I saved you, though I knew it not. And here you are, in a cell, yes, but home with your family, here at Winterfell. It was a vow I made to your mother and I kept it. But even when I fight the wights, my sword aflame, Lady Brienne true and strong beside me with her blade twin to my own, I must beat back the voice of Cersei in my head telling me at this moment that I can never make anything better.” He flipped his eyes to Sansa crouched into the corner of the cell. “And every day your words steal her resolve and add burdens to her regrets. Sansa is alive, girl. You are alive. And so there is always a chance to avenge those smallfolk.” Jaime stood and faced Sansa. “You are a Stark, a daughter of the north, all you know is suffering and survival. And all that matters is what has always mattered: how you will survive. And you can only survive together.” He held out his stump to Sansa. Her head hung low, tears dripping onto her fur cape. “Sansa,” he called, his voice gentle. “You have made a mistake, yes. A grievous mistake. Now do not make more in forgetting who you are.”

After a time, she lifted her eyes and stared at what was once his hand. Then, she uncurled from the floor to stand, stepping over her abandoned tray of food, creeping forward on limping legs. She placed long, dry fingers on the grimy linen wound around his wrist. Jaime swiveled his head to Arya and held out his only hand. Arya grit her teeth and glared at Jaime. He managed a small, sad smile. “Arya. Little Wolf. This will not do. Come, take my hand and forgive your sister. We have real enemies to fight and they not her.”

“No,” she returned, stubborn as an ox in high summer. “We are in this cell, the prisoners of Petyr Baelish, in our own home, because of her stupidity.”

Jaime sighed, seeking peace and patience. “And Bran lost his legs because of mine own selfishness and stupidity and yet, you have forgiven me. Come, Arya. Take my hand.”

“No!”

Jaime sighed once more, filling his chest, closing his eyes to the red tide rising behind them. When his anger passed, he looked at Arya over his open hand. “You are angry at the wrong person, girl, and nothing good will come of it. Forgive your sister. She is the only sister given you. Do not make me ask a second time, child.”

Fresh, cold fury burst alive in Arya’s long face. “How dare you threaten me, Kingslayer. You are not my fath-,”

The squint of his green eyes quelled another word from Arya’s lips. Jaime said nothing to the slur, only wiggled his five fingers in tight-lipped silence.

Arya’s mouth trembled as she stared at Jaime’s hand. Jaime scarce heard her whisper, “I am sorry,” before she took his hand and buried her head in the center of this chest. He pulled Sansa into his arms and let the girls weep together, their arms circling each other’s shoulders. After a time, Jaime pulled the Stark sisters back and placed their hands in the others. “Arya,” he said, clearing his throat, “and Sansa, here stands before you the only woman who has known you longer than the mother you both share.” The girls stood, hands clasped, tears streaming down their faces though they stared into each other’s eyes. “The young woman you behold may be different than you but the same blood beating through your heart beats through hers. You may cut her with your words and judgments but you would take up arms against the world to defend her against another. She has hurt you and disappointed you and no doubt will again. But you will always forgive her when she does for she is your sister. And she, the greatest champion and ally you will ever have. Arya, the time comes to end your rebukes. Forgive your sister. And Sansa, know you now look into the eyes of the truest friend you believed Baelish to be.” Jaime turned to the youngest Stark girl. “Arya?”

“Sansa, I forgive you for trusting that lying sack of-,”

“Arya!”

She sighed, looked at the stone floor then tried again, her voice quiet. “I forgive you, Sansa. I do. Truly.”

Sansa nodded and bit her bottom lip through a thin smile.

“Good,” Jaime said. “Now, sit.” The girls seated beside him and they made a triangle, crossed-leg, knees touching. Jaime leaned into the circle. “Now, if she gets close enough to the snake,” he said, his words low, “how might it be done?”

“Like this and this,” answered Arya, a finger tip against Jaime’s temple and throat. “Something thin and sharp.” She curled her lip in a sort of smile, ever the wolf. “Like a needle.”

“He will keep himself guarded at all times.”

They both turned to the strong, clear voice of Sansa Stark. Jaime looked at Arya.

“No, not at all times,” she reasoned. “There is the privy and when he will call you to his bed.”

Once, she would have blushed but no more. Instead, Sansa’s bright eyes blazed with understanding. She nodded once then whispered, “Show me.”

 

 *******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

On day two of their captivity, Jaime scrambled to his feet, his half-sleep mind still a jumble of blood and screams. His right hand grabbed at his waist, grasping for Lion’s Heart.

Just then, he remembered why.  Jaime’s eyes shot to a whimper from across the dim cage.

Arya and Sansa clung to each other in the murky corner of their cell.

Somewhere above their heads, a screech once more shook the foundations of Winterfell.

Jaime cursed and near flattened himself into the ground.

Sansa cowered and curled herself deeper into Arya’s side. Arya’s gray eyes grew wide with terror. They seemed the only light in the darkness of the cell.

“Remember when we saw them, Ser Jaime?” she whispered. “We were still in the Riverlands, with Weasel. They were flying to the Aeyrie.”

Jaime’s eyes flitted across the stones of the ceiling, waiting once more for the song of the dragons. When he heard only silence, he rose from the knees, panting as if he ran a mile. He began to pace the cell.

“Yes, of course I remember. I remember two heads streaming silver in the wind, another rider, small and golden his locks beneath his helm. I remember, girl.”

“And do you remember what you told Weasel about cyvasse? You told her that the dragon was the strongest player in the game.”

“Yes,” Jaime huffed, still pacing _. They are here. Tyrion is here. Danaerys in here. Will they let me see her one last time? Will they let me hold my heart once more before they take my head?_ “Yes, I remember, Arya. Only a catapult may stop them.”

“Yes,” the girl murmured. “But everyone thinks a catapult make of wood and iron, of stone and might. What if a catapult was made of something else?”

Jaime stopped in mid-stride to face her. He peered at Arya though she seemed to look past him. “Made of something else? Like what, girl?”

“Like,” she paused to lick her lips, “like love. Or longing. Or betrayal. You once threatened to send my nuncle Edmure’s newborn babe to him in a truebuchet. And even though Riverrun could survive a siege of a thousand thousand days, the siege was not broken by Lions.” She looked at him , then. “No, Ser Jaime. It was broken by love.”

Sansa turned to Arya with wide, blue eyes. “What are you saying, Sister?”

“I don’t know,” Arya returned, shaking her head.   “Only I fear…I fear for Jon.” Arya shifted her gaze to Jaime. “And for you, Ser Jaime.” Arya looked from green eyes to blue. “And I don’t know why.”

_Please let me hold her once more._

Jaime saw the fear in both pale faces and crossed the cell to quell it, before it joined with his own. “We don’t need your fear, girl,” he rasped, reaching to shake her, “we need a plan to keep you all alive.”

“You must stay close to him, Ser Jaime.”

“That is your only plan, girl?”

Arya grabbed a fistful of his stained tunic. “Yes! You must stay close to Jon!”

Jaime saw it then, the same glint in her eyes when she told him of capturing the mind of Balerion the Black Cat of the Red Keep.

_Her words are true. Her words are real._

He stood, slow, looking down on the drawn faces of Arya and Sansa Stark. Then Jaime turned and walked to the bars, squinting to peer into the darkness of the cage across from him.

Meera Reed had moved from where she sat the day before but not Jon Snow. The fresh food beside his foot went untouched. The boy seemed curled into a black ball of dark hair and boiled leather, of pain and despair.

Of failure.

Jaime knew the boy was deep inside, perhaps never to return.

_This will not do. Every shade that died at the point of the Falcon’s swords need him for their king, need him for their vengenance._

“Boy!” Jaime hissed through the bars. “Do not leave them now! You are still their king!”

And for answer, Jon turned, pressing his left shoulder into the cold stone, giving Jaime Lannister only his hunched back.

 

********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

On day three of their capture, Jaime awoke to Arya tossing him side to side, calling his name, slapping his cheeks. Jaime pushed her small hands away and sat up.

“What is it, girl?”

“It’s Lady Brienne!”

Jaime was on his feet and at the bars in a blink.

“Wench!” he roared. “Wench!” He turned to Arya and screamed, “Where is she, what have they done with her?”

“I-,”

“Out with it, girl!”

“She is…she is… _retching_!”

“What?” Jaime squinted, trying to make sense of her words. “She is-,”

And then he heard it.

A sound somewhere between moan and groan and wail and then something wet and heavy, plopping into a bucket.

“ **GUARDS! GUARDS!** ” Jaime grabbed a stool and began banging on the bars, dragging the ironwood seat across the metal until it filled the cell with its clang. Arya and Sansa added their cries to the fearsome noise.

Four guards appeared, shoving spears through the slits, forcing Jaime back. He still held the stool like a shield.

“It is the Lady Brienne, you fools! She is sick and in need of a maester!”

A thickset guard laughed and spat into the cell. “So? Soon, all you Wolves are dragon’s meat.”

Jaime threw the stool into the bars, the soldiers retreating with a curse. “My brother, the Queen’s Hand, _demanded_ we all be held captive _and_ unharmed! If Lady Brienne of Tarth has been poisoned or dies from some pestilence of the bowels, it is _you_ that will feed the dragons, you dung!”

The guards shifted and looked at each other, spears still pointed into the cell. Jaime sensed their unease.

_They have seen the queen and her dragons. And they have seen what both can do._

“You must take Maester Tarly to see to her at once!”

“But our orders-,”

“Are to obey my brother’s commands! He is still my brother, you curs! And when he hears how you have mistreated those he commanded you to save, ignored their pleas, ignored their sickness.” Jaime dropped his voice to an edged, slow whisper. “You heard his words. The queen shall mete out her payment for disobeying her commands. In fire. And in blood.”

At _fire_ , the four guards turned and ran down the corridor. Jaime heard a cell door clang open and shut and Jaime heard the heavy, flat steps of Maester Samwell Tarly before he saw the full, round face of the healer red and mottled with trotting behind two soldiers. Jaime strained to hear what was said in Brienne’s cell but after a time, he heard the door slam closed and Maester Tarly once more shuffling down the corridor to return to his cell with Addam Marbrand. As soon as Jaime saw the maester he called out his name. Tarly slowed his steps. “She retches, saying there an uneasiness in her stomach though she ate and drank the same as Rickon and Brandon who show no such illness.”

“Does she have a fever, a rash?”

“No, just the retching. It started today, early this morning. She could not break her fast. I bid her take small sips of water or watered ale and rest until recovered.”

“Maester Tarly-,”

“Enough!” growled a guard and flicked his spear into the maester’s broad back. Samwell Tarly gave a yip and scurried away from the wicked point toward his waiting cell.

“You see, Kingslayer,” spat the husky guard once more. “No one touched your ugly whore.” He laughed and spat once more into Jaime’s cell, just barely missing the boot of Sansa Stark.

Jaime blinked, willing a portrait of his thick face for all time.

This guard would be the second to die on Lion’s Heart, his blood mingling with the gore of Petyr Baelish.

 

********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

It was midday when they came for the Stark affinity.

Jaime’s eyes widened at the speech and bronze skin of the soldiers sent to bring them to the queen but he recovered with a quick nod to Arya. One wrist was shackled to the other in front of their bodies, Jaime’s wrist fastened to his left elbow with an oddly fashioned manacle. As they left the cells, Arya directly behind Jon Snow, the girl dropped suddenly to one knee and grabbed her ankle, surprising both Jaime and her Dothraki captors with words in their speech. A soldier pushed Jaime forward and with a smile, he found himself now behind Jon Snow. Jon’s lank hair hung in his long face, his eyes trained on the rough stones. Jaime started to whisper to the boy but was silenced with a hiss and a jab with a curved dagger. Next Jaime walked on the tips of his toes, straining to see a glimpse of white-blonde hair. He saw none and was rewarded with another warning and prick of edged steel.

As they walked from the dark cells of Winterfell into the pale light of a winter noon, Jaime blinked his watering eyes, looking at the great yard. The scent of Sunstar was faint on the cold air. Repairs continued on the breached wall, piles of bodies, wights and Falcons, burned in heaps or waited for space on a pyre. Jaime wondered where they kept the three dragons.

They were led into the Great Hall.

Jaime could still smell the blood of the smallfolk, see dark stains on the tables and benches, on the floors and against the walls.

A tapestry depicting a hunt in the Wolf’s Wood was streaked with brown smears.

They were brought before the dais, spread out into a line, a soldier beside each captive. Jaime looked at the red-haired man, his face leathered and lined, and tried to place his sneering face.

It looked so near the same face Jaime once smashed with his golden hand.

He remembered the name and smiled.

_I shall have to tell the Wench that story when we meet again in the Seventh Heaven._

Ser Jon Connington stood center between Queen Danerys and what could only be Aegon Targaryen. An Unsullied soldier stood on her left with a closed helm. Seated in two high backed weirwood chairs sat the Dragon Queen of Westeros and Prince Aegon. Dany was dressed for battle in red armor with bright scales, like a dragon. On her chest rode the three dragon sigil of House Targaryen, the dragons wrought in black, green and gold. Her long silver hair was braided up and away from her oval face in a simple style. Her clear lilac eyes gave nothing as she studied Jaime. A simple golden crown, three dancing dragons in its center, rested on her small, smooth forehead. She was dressed for battle not ceremony and Jaime knew that despite his fate, it was a mercy for them all that Danyerys Targaryen was here, at last, with the last living dragons in the world. Tyrion stood beside the little queen, more stern and grim than Jaime had ever seen his brother. On the edge of the dais stood a brown-skinned young woman with a halo of dark curls, as lovely as she was slim and proud. Jaime scanned the room.

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” said the queen began, “you are here because-,”

“Tyrion,” he cut in. “Where is Lady Brienne of Tarth?”

Tyrion whipped his large head around to look at Jaime. Nearly everyone in the room grimaced or gasped at the gaffe. Aegon smiled, though it never reached the strange gleam in his dark purple eyes. Jon Connington looked at the boy and stroked long fingers over his hilt.

“I am here, Ser Jaime,” Brienne’s voice answered behind him. Two Dothraki guards flanked her broad shoulders, her face sallow and wan as she stood squinting against the bright light. Maester Tarly stood beside her. Jaime could not miss her lips pursed in disapproval as was forced into line. He read in her narrowed eyes a plea to quell his reckless tongue.

“Lady Brienne,” said Tyrion, a deep bow to the Maid of Tarth. He turned to Dany. “Forgive my brother, Your Grace. Diplomacy has never been his strength.”

“Neither has humility, Lord Hand Tyrion,” said Ser Jon, stepping forward. “Perhaps you should let the Kingslayer apologize to the Queen for himself?” Tyrion turned once more to Jaime, his mismatched eyes wide with the same plea from Brienne.

Jaime sighed. Then hinging at the waist, he bowed deeply to the queen and prince in their high seats. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I am Jaime Lannister, once Commander of the King’s Guard and slayer of King Aerys Targaryen.” He shrugged and shook his head. “For that, I know I am to die. What would you have of me?”

She gazed at him for a long, quiet moment. Then to his surprise, she lifted and held out a small hand. “Release him from his shackles!”

Jon Connington blanched. “Your Grace! Do you think that wise?”

She said nothing, only arching a brow at the man. He stepped back behind her throne.

Two guards released Jaime from the tight manacles.

“Come closer, Ser Jaime, so I may see you better.”

Unsullied guards pushed Jaime forward to the dais. They brought him to a halt and he looked at her hand. Then he squinted and looked at Tyrion. His brother shook his overlarge head.

“You must think my brother daft as a duck, Your Gace. Take the queen’s hand, Jaime,” he bit out between his teeth.

Jaime took her hand in his own and bowed over it. But despite its delicate appearance, her palm proved rough and calloused with long years of struggle and the hard, hot work of taming dragons. Jaime looked at the beautiful queen, a young woman, truly. Her hands were just like her, delicate as a queen’s in a minstrel’s lay yet strong as the walls of Dragonstone. He released her hand to step back. She looked up at him from her weirwood chair. Aegon said nothing, his mouth tight at the corners.

“So, you are the man who killed my father,” she spoke into the silence. “You are the King’s Guard who murdered your king.” Her voice proved blunt, a mere statement. Only the sound of the crackling fire filled the quiet room.

Jaime looked Dany in the center of her lilac eyes. “Aye.” he answered. “I am the man who slew his king, your father.” He turned to Aegon. “And I killed your grandsire.” The boy blinked, slow, steady. Jaime felt Brienne’s nervous shifting behind him.

“Why, Ser Jaime? Lord Tyrion has given us your reasons but I would hear them from you.”

He turned to look at Brienne, the only one in the room, in the world, who knew the answer. She was biting her bottom lip and he almost smiled. She nodded once.

Jaime turned to Daneyrs with closed eyes, as before the cold of a breaching wave. On the day Bran spared his life, in front of all of Winterfell, he confessed to killing his king at the foot of the heart tree. But he never said why. To him, then, looking into the determined face on the tree, it did not matter why he did it, only that it was done, and by his hand.

A great sin among a great many sins.

Now this young woman, his dead king’s daughter, demanded to know why her father was dead.

And why it Jaime that killed him.

“He was mad,” he said soft, simple against the sound of the fire.

“Yes,” she said, her fingers flicking to Tyrion. “I was told he was… _unwell_.” Jaime looked down at Tyrion then back to the queen. He never told Tyrion what happened on that day but it did not surprise Jaime that his brother already solved for the answer.

“Yes, he was unwell. Over the years, his sickness grew. He suspected plots at every turn, every glance. He found strange, hidden meanings in the most gentle words and punished those he accused of passing secret messages amongst themselves to depose him.” Jaime paused, swallowing against the memory. “Then he grew obsessed with fire.”

Aegon laughed then, a high, grating sound. “Of course he loved fire,” the boy spoke. “We are dragons, after all.”

“Yes,” Jaime murmured, “like all dragons, he loved fire. He loved to watch things burn. Paper. Wood. He loved to trail lines of oil down long tables and watch them burn. Framed pictures, the faces burning away. Once, he even commanded we burn a house so he could see the leaping flames, feel the heat brush against his skin. He threw the frightened family a bag of silvers and told them be glad they weren’t locked inside. Soon after, he began to burn animals. Small animals at first. Rats. Cats. Dogs. Then later, horses, who screamed like men.” Jaime swallowed again. “And then he began to burn _people_. Hand after Hand after Hand he burned. He burned servants for spilling the soup. He burned commoners for not lowering their eyes. He burned ladies of the court and laughed. He especially loved to watch their dresses catch aflame. He burned lords, like Rickard and Brandon Stark. He burned and burned and _burned_. And when my father came to sack the city, when Robert Baratheon bludgeoned Rhaegar at the Ruby Fork, he finally had reason to burn the world. He said he knew this day would come, when he must burn the world to ashes, to purify it, purge it of all sin. He ordered his pyromancers to hide caches of wildfire throughout King’s Landing, from the greatest manse to the poorest shack of Flea Bottom’s slum. Varys and I warned him, _begged_ him not to open the gates for my father. I knew what my own father planned, he was my father, _my_ father, girl, and the Lions raised on hard lessons of winning at every and all cost. When my father began to sack the city, the King screamed, _“Burn them, burn them all!”_    I heard the people outside the high walls of the Red Keep, running from the swords of Lions, from the fire of Dragons. _Burn them_ , Aerys screamed, over and over again.” Jaime stopped.

After a long moment, Aegon barked, “Go on, Kingslayer! Finish your tale!”

But Jaime remained silent.

He always hated this moment.

The moment, the breath before everything would change.

Before his hand changed the game, spun the wheel, in the game of thrones.

He turned it over and over in his mind, trying for a different outcome. But it always returned to the same bloody end.

“I killed the pyromancers, first, to stop them from carrying out his orders. When Aerys knew I meant to kill him, he turned and ran.” Jaime paused again. When he continued, he ensured his unwavering green gaze found and held Dany’s eyes. “He turned and ran, still calling for the burning of King’s Landing. I plunged my sword in his back. It came through the center of his chest. He told me it mattered not, he would be reborn as a dragon. I slit his throat to prevent that from happening.”

The room was as silent as the crypts beneath their feet.

“What happened then?” Jaime turned his head down the chamber to Brandon Stark’s voice. Jaime knew from his clear, firm voice that the boy knew, had seen it already. But before he could speak, Ser Jon cut in.

“I’ll tell you what happened, Brandon Stark. Your lord father, Eddard Stark, found Jaime Lannister sitting on the Iron Throne, the king’s blood still on his sword.”

Dany whipped her head to look at him. “Is this true, Ser Jaime? Did you take my father’s throne?”

He nodded. “Aye, girl. I did. But what Lord Eddard failed to notice was the puddle of vomit beside me when he burst into the Throne Room. I was sickened by what I watched happen, all I allowed to happen.” Ser Jon averted his eyes. “By what I had done,” said Jaime. “It all came upon me at the moment and I sat on the throne to keep from tumbling down the stairs. There is something you should know, Danaerys Targaryen. I made my choice that day. And I do not regret saving the people of King’s Landing. I only regret I could not save your father, too.”

“So it true, then,” she said, her words slow. “My father was mad. My father had to be stopped. And _you_ stopped him, Ser Jaime. Only _you_. Only you had the courage to do what needed doing. Ser Barristan told me how my father turned from Rhaegar, ignored his counsel, ignored everything and everyone save the ever shriller voices swirling inside his head.” At that moment, Danaerys looked at Tyrion, her woman’s eyes glancing his before skipping away. But in their soft gazes, words passed between them and to his squinting wonder, Jaime knew their meaning. Then with a blink, Danaerys became the queen once more, Tyrion’s face blank as a stone. The Dragon’s voice rang out strong and clear. “I pardon you, Ser Jaime. I pardon you of all crimes against my father and his heirs. And may I prove a better ruler to my people than my father proved to his.”

“Pardon? For this… Kingslayer? I do not consent to see him _pardoned_ from his crimes against our House!”

All eyes snapped to the red, splotched face of Aegon Targaryen.

Though she the blood of the dragon, Danaerys’ soft, whispered words filled the Great Hall with ice. “You forget yourself, Nephew. I rule here. And I will pardon Ser Jaime Lannister.”

“Yes, you rule, Aunt,” the boy sneered. “Only because you have two dragons.”

She smiled, sharp and cold as the glint in her amethyst gaze. “Yes. And I have _three_ dragons, dear Nephew. For remember, my Prince, Rhaegal bears you only on my word.”

They locked eyes then, purple eyes to purple eyes.

Aegon flicked his eyes, at last, to the ground.

“Dear Aunt, Lord Baelish has done us a great service. He has captured our enemies, a traitor to our throne. We cannot afford-,”

“To let waste such capable warriors when the Others storm the gates. The Wolves must be freed to fight. Free them all!”

At her word, all the queen’s soliders removed the shackles from the wrists of the captives. Hodor reached to pick up Bran from the floor with a “Hodor.”

“Forgive me, my queen,” said Jon Connington, “but free your enemies to fight? Free him, the very man that killed your father? That defiled his cloak?”

“Yes, Ser Jon,” answered Danaerys Targaryen. “My enemies and him, the greatest one.”

“Are you certain, Your Grace?” soothed Petyr Baelish. “Everyone knows a caged beast is a danger.”

She turned to him, her eyes rimmed in ice. “I am certain of my own mind, Lord Baelish. As I am certain of _yours_.”

Jaime watched Jon Connington’s jaw clench, saw the Dothraki screamers and Unsullied eying all the angles in the room. There was discord here, disharmony.

Of course, Littlefinger stepped into the chaos.

Bowing low before the queen, he rose with an easy smile. “Forgive me, my Queen. I see the rumors prove true. You do indeed possess a gentle heart. And I fear the Prince and Lord Connington are only concerned with those seeking to take advantage of your trusting nature.” Littlefinger’s eyes slid to Tyrion Lannister. Tyrion squinted at the former Master of Coin.

Danaerys peered down at Petyr Baelish, her still face cast in pale marble. She tilted her head. “Do you mean Lord Tyrion, Lord Baelish? You once sat on the Small Council with him, yes? Am I not to trust him?”

“I mean only, my queen, you must take care to mete out just punishment for heinous crimes-,”

“You mean like the slaughtering of the smallfolk of Winterfell? What crimes did they commit, Lord Baelish?”

To his right, Jon Snow stirred to life.

In a pause, Petyr’s smile slipped but a moment before he found it once more. “My queen. As I explained to you, as I swore before the old gods and new, the smallfolk of Winterfell would never bend the knee. They would not stop fomenting rebellion, would not stop trying to free the bastard Jon Snow and the Wolves. I could not fight an enemy within and without, I could not hold the castle for you against the smallfolk and the wights. With a heavy heart and tears in mine eyes, I bid them swear fealty to the dragons or die and these stubborn, northern fools chose death.”

“ ** _LIAR!_** ” roared Jon Snow. Jon’s word rang up into the rafters, echoing against the ironwood beams. Jaime looked down and saw the boy stood on a dark, oily patch of stones, the sawdust beneath his boots stained a faint pink. “I pleaded with you, I begged you to spare them and you killed them, men and old women and children. You locked them in this hall and butchered them like hogs before a slaughter. You did not offer them dragons or death, you lying snake. You executed them for being cold and hungry and afraid, you assassinated them, you offered them only cruelty and death. **_CRUELTY AND DEATH!”_** Jon’s voice dropped to a whisper though it carried to all in the great hall. “And now you would lie on their lives, not even leaving my people the honor of their deaths.”

Petyr Baelish snapped his head to Danaeyrs Targaryen. “The bastard lies, your Grace! I had no choice!”

“Yes, you did, Lord Baelish,” answered Tyrion Lannister. “Our spy’s account is twin to Jon’s own.”

“Spy?” Petyr blinked. “What spy?”

“Come, Littlefinger,” said Tyrion with a huff of laughter. “We once sat together on the Small Council. I took your measure as you took mine. Surely you did not expect me to trust in your words, sir? Anyone betting their lives on the promises of Petyr Baelish ends with losing their heads.”

“Indeed, Lord Tyrion,” drawled a voice from deep in the back of the room. “Just as surely as the sun sets in the west.”

Petyr Baelish scanned the room, a wild look now in his eyes. He froze when he saw him drawing closer, shock taking his breath. Littlefinger’s mouth fell open over his pointed beard.

“Greetings, Lord Baelish. You know, before arriving in King’s Landing, I learned to shape and reshape myself into whatever was needed to survive.” With slow, measured steps he climbed the dais, removing bits of himself as he went: a black-haired wig fluttered to the floor, he drew himself up from a crouch, seeming to grow taller. After bowing over the Queen’s outstretched hand, sweeping bows to Prince Aegon and Lord Tyrion, he turned and faced the room. He shook his baldpate and blue eyes turned to a quick, sharp brown. Reaching up, he pulled from his cheek the thick, pink scar. “So, now, my Queen needed the truest master.”

Jaime shook his head. “Master Ustan.”

“Ser Jaime,” the man said with a quick bow.

Jaime whipped his head to Addam Marbrand. His friend barked a sharp laugh. “The Spider, at last, is found.”

“Forgive me my subtlety, Ser Addam. It proved all in service of my queen.”   Varys flipped his eyes to Petyr Baelish, unable to contain his smirk any longer. “It would seem in naming Addam Marbrand, you named the wrong carrytale, Lord Baelish.”

Baelish finally closed his mouth and murmured, “So it would seem.”

“Well, if it all the same, Lord Baelish, I shall keep the gold.” Varys patted the small bulge at his side. He shrugged, elegant even in boiled wool. “I must feed my little birds.” Gliding into place, as if he never left, Varys stood quiet, watchful behind his queen.

From the dais, Tyrion looked down at Petyr Baelish. “I trust you understand, Littlefinger. We felt it best to watch Winterfell with only our sharpest eyes.”

“ ** _QORAS MORA!_** ” shouted Danaerys. “ ** _Gūrogon zirȳ!”_**

Swift and silent, the Dothraki and Unsullied soldiers ringed Petyr Baelish and the Falcons, spears, swords and wicked curved arahks trained on the Knights of the Vale.

Danaeyrs rose from the weirwood throne. “You were sworn Knights of the Vale, sworn to protect the innocent, the weak. Instead, huddled here in this very room, filled with fear and terror, you locked them inside the Great Hall of Winterfell and made this their tomb. Taking your swords and your spears, your quarrels and your knives, you murdered them as they screamed and begged for mercy. Look, now, at the floor beneath your boots. It is stained with the blood of those innocents.” She turned her cold, lilac eyes on Petyr Baelish. “It is no comfort to me, men of the Vale, that you only followed the orders of one greedy, venal man. When those orders fell from his lips, it was your duty as sworn knights to turn your swords on him. Instead, you followed his commands and slew the smallfolk of Winterfell, once more spilling blood in a mockery of Guest’s Rights. I warned you!” she shrilled. “I warned you all!” Danaerys paused, sweeping the room with her fierce, burning glare. “ _For what measure you mete shall be measured to you---in fire and blood._ Take them to the dragon pens. Cut their throats. Then throw them to my children.”

Aegon shot from his seat. “You would murder him that gave us a peaceful Winterfell and let these _dogs_ , these _usurpers_ live? Surely this bastard Jon Snow deserves to die, this pretender to claim the King in the North?”

“Aegon! Hold your tongue! I rule here-,”

“And when they in King’s Landing hear how you _ruled_ in the north, hear how you betrayed our allies and pardoned your traitors, how shall they view their Queen, Aunt, hmm? How will they ever again trust your judgments?”

“Do not threaten me, Aegon! You are my blood, my nephew, but you must learn your place! _I_ am the Dragon!”

The boy faced her, just inches from her own white-faced fury. “And _I_ am the son of Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. He was the last, _true_ dragon. His blood sings through mine.” He drew himself up to his full height and though perhaps only a little older than Jon Snow, the boy gazed down at his aunt. “And all of Westeros will back my claim.” His whisper slid a cold finger down Jaime’s spine.

_It is him. He is the one. Aegon Targaryen is the great, crashing catapult that Arya spoke of, smashing Danaerys Targaryen’s life to dust and ruin. How could this be Rhaegar’s son?_

“Aegon, no!” Danaerys grasped him around his elbows, peering into his twisted face. “We mustn’t fight, we mustn’t allow ourselves to be torn apart! We are all we have left of our House!”

“So make me your King!” he snarled.

Danaerys pulled away, shaking her head. “Aegon. You are my Crown Prince. If I have no heirs you will inherit-,”

“Words are wind!” the boy shrieked. “If my father were alive, I would already have you in my bed!”

“Ser Jon, please! Aegon, you are overwrought, your struggles with Rhaegal wear on you, perhaps we should discuss this-,”

“Your Grace? If I may speak a word?” The quiet voice of Howland Reed sounded above the shocked silence of the Great Hall. With a nod, Jon Connington moved to Aegon’s side, whispering something to the boy. Ser Jon readied to lead him from the dais. Danaerys seemed to reclaim her regal bearing. She cleared her throat, a delicate grumble.

“Lord Reed, is it? Yes, you may speak.”

Howland Reed turned his eyes to Jon Snow before looking once more at the queen. “The Mountain, that monster Gregor Clegane did not kill all of Rhaegar’s children.”

“Of course not, fool,” Aegon snapped, stopping at the last step of the dais. “Here I stand, Rhaegar’s son.”

“Aye, Prince Aegon.” He smiled, soft, sad. “But, my prince, there is another.” Now all eyes followed Howland Reed’s gaze to Jon Snow. The boy stood squinting at the Lord of Greywater Watch. Lord Reed closed his eyes. “I feel it time. Forgive me, Ned.” When he opened them, two long tears slid down his cheeks and into his beard.

Jon began to shake his head, eyes wide, mouth slack.

“Yes, boy. It is true. You are the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, born of love and pain, in the Tower of Joy.”

Jaime felt tears spring to his eyes, heavy.

Without knowing how, he knew it true.

“No,” Jon whispered. “No, no, I am the natural son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell! I am not-,”

“The bastard son of Rhaegar Targaryen?” finished Aegon Targaryen, his voice soft.

Danaerys stumbled onto the weirwood throne, gripping the chair’s arm as if to keep from sliding off the edge of the world.

Tyrion’s stubby fingers reached out to squeeze the hand of his queen. Without removing his hand he turned his mismatched eyes on Howland Reed.

“This is a serious claim, ser. How can you prove your words?”

Lord Reed tore his eyes from Jon Snow. “I saw the babe myself, Lord Tyrion. Lord Eddard descended from the Tower of Joy, stepping over the broken bodies of his own men and Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower.” His eyes went back to Jon. “And in his arms, a babe. A babe his sister named Jahaerys Targaryen. But before the world, he called him Jon Snow.”

“I have seen it, too!” Brandon Stark called to Tyrion Lannister. “In a vision.” Brandon twisted in Hodor’s arm, turning to Jaime Lannister. “Behind a door.”

Danaerys stood, her legs shaking. “Jon? Jon Snow?” she breathed. “No! We need proof! We must prove, in the Citadel, with the Archmaesters, that Jon Snow is my-,”

“Brother,” Aegon spoke. He crossed the last step of the dais and came to stand before a blinking, wide-eyed Jon Snow. A smile lit Aegon’s fair, calm face. “It is true, Aunt,” the boy smiled. “I know it true.”

Now so close, Aegon Targaryen seemed the very image of Rhaegar, all long limbs and silver braids. The boy turned to Danaerys Targaryen. “My Queen,” his voice rang out, like a song, like Rhaegar singing, “let us set aside our grievances, our enmity. Forgive me my rash words, my questions of your judgment, my challenge of your rule. You are the Queen of Westeros, Ruler of the Iron Throne, Danaerys Stormborn of House Targaryen! My Queen, let us welcome our lost Dragon, come home to us at last.” His violet eyes sparkled with tears. “The gods are good, my Queen. Surely now, our line will carry on.” Aegon Targaryen stepped down the last stair, arms opened wide. He stopped before Jon Snow.

Tears streamed down Jon’s long face.

In but a moment, Aegon gathered Jon into his arms.

Aegon held his brother close and kissed the dark hair grazing Jon’s left ear. Aegon pulled back to look into Jon’s mottled face. “Sweet boy! How this news has dazzled your mind! Let us embrace.” Aegon pulled Jon even closer.

Without thinking, Jaime reached for a sword that wasn’t there.

Jon gasped, his smile broken, his mouth filling with blood.

Aegon smiled at the blood running from Jon’s lips. “Sweet brother.” He stepped back, twisting the dragonbone hilt deeper into Jon’s stomach. “There are only three dragons, bastard. And you shall not have mine.”

**_“NO!”_ **

Jaime felt his chest rent from his scream.

Jaime Lannister rammed the Dothraki soldier closest to him, snatching his sword from the man’s hand. Jon crumpled to his knees, then flailed onto his back, holding the handle jutting from his stomach as he blinked at Aegon Targaryen. Aegon reached down and pulled the blade from Jon’s stomach.

Jon screamed and blood spurted into the air.

Jaime saw nothing, then, the world running red with his fury. He heard his name screamed beyond his hearing as he arced his blade.

It slid through Aegon’s neck. The boy’s body dropped like a weighted sack to the floor.

The broad faced soldier from the cells broke through the silence and ran across the room, screaming as he raised his sword to slash into Jaime.  Jaime ducked then shot up, spearing the man between the sternum.  With his boot, he kicked the man off the sword and turned to the boys.

Jaime fell to his knees between the two boys, one silver, one dark and gasping, waiting to feel cold steel slice through his neck or chest.

It all happened at once.

Above him, through his tears he saw Brienne parry a sword and shove her blade through Jon Connington’s chest.

Into the melee, Brienne turned and began fighting with the Dorthraki and Unsullied against the Vale Knights. Everywhere he looked, the Vale Knights were slain by the Queen’s men, by Arya, Gendry, Addam, Nyo, Ser Davos and more. Unsullied formed a tight circle around the dais with their spears, skewering any Falcons that came close to Tyrion and the wailing queen.

Jaime looked at Jon. His hand dropped the sword and feathered through Jon’s greasy hair. Blood bubbled and frothed from the boy’s mouth. He clutched at Jaime’s hand.

**“TARLY!** ” Jaime roared. “ ** _PLEASE!_** **TARLY!** ”

Bran, on his stomach, looked on in horror.

In a blink, the melee was over.

As though through wool stuffed in his ears, Jaime heard, felt himself shoved from Jon’s side. **_“GET A MAESTER, YOU FOOLS! NOW!”_**

It was his brother.

Tyrion.

Tyrion was next to Jaime, pressing his small hand over the great wound in Jon’s stomach.

Nusu Nyo and Maester Tarly ran to Jon Snow, bending over the white-faced boy.

_Save him. Sam. Nyo Tyrion. Please Someone. Save him._

“Jon!” Tarly screamed, pushing Tyrion’s fingers out of the way, covering the wound with the palm of his broad hand.

_Save him. Save him!_

Jon gurgled through the blood pooling in his mouth, looking at Jaime, trying to speak.

Jon’s lips stopped moving.

His eyes turned to dark, smoked glass, wide, open.

Maester Tarly tore at the neck of Jon’s tunic, checking for a pulse, screaming his name over and over again.

“Jon?” Arya whispered, her face red and swollen with grief. “Sam? Nyo? Please-,”

Sam shook his head and chocked on a sob. “No, Arya. He’s gone. He’s…dead.”

Jaime fell into strong, warm arms holding him as his world came a part. The last thing he felt was Brienne’s tears wetting his face before his mind reeled and darkness claimed him.

A voice rose above the sobs, shrill, panicked, though whose voice, Jaime did not know.

“Rickon!”

_Sansa?_

“ ** _RICKON!_** Where is he?”

“Where is Littlefinger?”

“Where is Rickon Stark?!”

_I have failed. Again. I have failed._

“Let go, Jaime. I have you, my love. Just let go, just for a little while.”

Jaine closed his eyes, felt her fingers against his forehead and fell into the waiting dark like a stone.


	21. The Last Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which the past is reconciled, the Wheel ever turns...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the wonderful Isola for beta-ing this chapter! Your encouragement and insights are EVERYTHING. I know it's been awhile so thank you to everyone still reading! Ya'll keep me going, you truly do! And apologies to Sho Nuff for the title of this chapter...

The cold sliced through an open fold of his rich sable mantle, the wind stinging across his bare cheek.  He closed his cape with a snap of his wrist.  The man burrowed deeper into his high furred collar and knew he would have to find them soon or the cold would force him to abandon his prize to the drifting snow.  The swaying horse beneath his legs whinnied and a plume of steam shot from her wide nostrils.  He had chosen her himself, knowing that if must flee, he would need strength, not speed, to fight through winter’s work.  The chestnut mare was breed for hard labor in the shivering cold and now she lifted high her long, strong legs through deep drifts, the thick, shaggy hair about her hooves clumped with ice and snow.  He ordered her saddlebags kept stocked with tools, provisions, maps.  In the confusion and blood, he drug the boy to the waiting horse, slipping through a gate while they tended the dying bastard.  Now slumped across his chest, the boy gave a whimper and stirred, struggling for a moment against the tight rope clenching his wrists.  

“Quiet,” the man hissed into his ear, a dull red below the lank, auburn strands.  The boy gave one last groan then fell back into the man’s small chest.  The man felt the boy’s rocking weight and counted the minutes since he last pried open the boy’s mouth to slip a healthy swallow of the sleeping draught, the bitter potion thick on the boy’s tongue.   _In a few more minutes, perhaps thirty, he will need more drink_ , the man reasoned, hoping he had enough to keep the boy quiet, still until he found him.   _And what if you don’t find him_  his mind mused, moving to his next calculation.  Sharp eyes peered into the gathering gloom, his lips smirked in answer.    _Then I leave him to the crows---or worse._    _And I make quick and quiet for a ship in Whiteharbor._    _Though I lose_ , he thought with a sigh,  _all that I have built by destroying_.  He snickered, a whisper on the wind, thinking of all the enemies he vanquished, all who believed him friend.   _Especially that fool._    _I can still see his wide eyes, his open mouth to find my dagger at this throat_.   He shook his head.   _I warned him not to trust me._  Then came another question, fast did his mind so move.   _And what if he will not parley with you, hear your terms, accept your offer?_   His smirk faded beneath his pointed beard.   _Then I am dead.  And soon, they will be, too._ He pushed thoughts of death from his mind, his grey-green eyes searching the dark line of the horizon for any sign.  The mare marched on.

Soon, he pulled the reins, checking the horse and forced the boy to gasp a few mouthfuls of the brown draught.  The boy fought him.  The man said nothing as the boy wiggled and tossed, confident in the boy’s restraints.  The man poured the acrid, oily drink past the boy’s lips with a calm hand.  The pungent liquid dribbled brown streaks down the boy’s chin but in minutes he swooned then fell into a fretful, mumbling sleep.

The horse trekked down a tree-sheltered slope into an open field, filled like a wide, deep basin with snow.  In the distance, the gray sun almost touched the rounded shoulders of the black peaks. The horse sniffed the wind then turned to climb back up the pine shrouded hill.

“No, my sweet,” he murmured to her, jerking her roughly back around.  “That way lies my future.”  He dug his heels into her broad flanks and despite her fear, a thousand years of breeding pushed her forward.  On and on they marked a path through the snow, his mind turning with every and all possibilities, landing---for a few, breathless moments---on his death, only to spin and alight on his victory.

What others fled, he embraced.

What others shunned, he welcomed.

Chaos, dishonor, ruin.

What glory he wanted could still be his, waiting beneath those dark trees.

_And if not?_

Impossible.

He would win. 

For he had nothing left to lose.

His horse tramped on, churning a deep trench through the snow filled plain.

They saw him before he could draw near.

From beneath the shade of the trees, they flowed, an ever-deeper shadow.  The shivering horse tried to turn, flee back to the hills from which they had come but he held the straps gripped in his small hands, forcing her to obey.  Slow, as if in some courtly dance, they encircled him, still keeping their distance, the multitude of iced blue eyes trained on him, the drooping boy, the trembling horse.  Men, women, children.  Some wildlings, some Black Brothers.  He saw the bones beneath their gray, rotted flesh, their black hands and tattered furs, some of them merely skeletons with spears or swords, even a giant rising tall above the trees.  But all, no matter their state of decay, possessed the same burning blue gaze.  Soon, he was ringed by a thousand blue eyes, unblinking, bright with malice.  The man held high his hands, a sign he hoped they remembered as surrender.  He hoped, too, they remembered the speech of living man.  

“I come in peace,” he spoke, swallowing past a thick clump in his throat.  He wet his thin lips and spoke again.  His voice wobbled on his fear.  “I seek…I seek an audience with your…your king.”  For a long moment, he heard nothing but the wind whistling over the plain, his own heart thrumming a frantic beat in his ears and chest.  The wheel turned to death and he almost stopped breathing. 

He knew that all the deaths he ever imagined could not compare to what these blue eyes would do once they closed around him.   His eyes slipped closed.  He lowered his hands, twisting his little fingers in the mare’s thick mane. 

Then a voice, not in his ears but in his head.

 _I am here_ , the voice spoke into his mind.   _But no king, I_.

He winced against the grating sound, all breaking, creaking, groaning ice, brittle and bitter with every word.

Two of the Others stepped to the side, facing each other.  Through the gate of their broken bodies,  _she_  stepped in long strides, the swell of her breast just visible beneath a sunken, scored chest.  Long, white hair, thin as a spider’s web, floated dead on the wind, down her back and past the black leather skirt over her black breeches.  Her skin was a pale gray mask, making her blue eyes glitter the brighter.  Deep lines etched across her face and hollow cheekbones and he wondered at the diadem on her small forehead.

_Was she a queen?_

_Yes_ , came the iced voice in his mind.  He shook his head, grimacing at the sound.   _Once of living and now dead_.

_Once of living?  Who are you-,_

_You dare to ask of me mine name, breather?  Who are you?_ She stalked closer to him, her tall boots crunching in the snow. _And quickly, your answer.  For I hear your blood squeezing through your living heart._  A long tube of gray slithered from between her mottled lips _._

He bit his cheek to stop his shivering as she drew closer.  The horse whined and backed away.  Tightly he held her rooted to the spot.

_I am called Petyr Baelish, your Grace.  I am but your humble-_

_Why are you here, breather?_    _Why have you come, alone, with only a small breather?_

_I wish to make an alliance with you, your Grace._

_An alliance?_   She narrowed her eyes.   _And alliance means you have something I want._

_I do, your Grace._

She said nothing, only spearing him with her blue gaze. 

_I know…I know all the secrets of Winterfell, the sunstar weed that destroys your servants, where they keep the dragonglass weapons._

Once more, she gave him her narrowed blue eyes for answer.

 _And I know the secrets of the Dragons and the keeps and towns in the south._   He paused, pulling a shuddering breath. 

_Did her eyes widen on the word “dragon?”-,_

_You were a fool to come here!_ she screamed through his skull. _We do not need you, breather.  We will capture every breathing thing in our thrall.  But for now, your blood, will do._   From her side, she pulled a great sword, like a long blade of pure, shimmering ice.  Wicked were its edges, sharp and made with cunning runes.  Holding it in her right hand, she crept forward.   _And I shall feast._

He almost slipped from the horse, grabbing Rickon Stark to keep them both from falling.

“Please,” he called out from his throat, “with a blade of Valyrian steel, they killed your commander!”

She stopped.

“I have advised the greatest of kings and queens, such as yourself-“

 _So?_   She stalked forward, blade glittering in her white hand.  She was close now, at this side.  Her ice sword leveled with his heart.   _They are dead, dead_.   _Our king is coming soon, soon to haunt the living dreams of men._

“The Dragons have come to Winterfell and you cannot hope to defend against their fire!”  There it was again, the fleeting moment in her eyes.  “They have sunstar, Valyrian steel, dragonglass!  And as your commander fell, so may you! But when they see I have Rickon Stark, the heir to the northern throne, they will open the gates for his safe return!  The Dragons will stand down, their weapons will clatter from their hands! You will not lose any servants but all of them breathing shall come under your thrall!  Make me your commander and all of Winterfell shall bow before you!  And as goes Winterfell, so goes the world.”  She watched him through the slit of her eyes.

_And what shall be given in return?_

He looked down at the boy.  The boy began to stir, his eyes fluttering.  “I want his sister.  To command by my side.”

Her lips parted and spread, then, splitting her face, the black maw of her mouth opened on pointed, rotten teeth.  She lowered her arm, a slow arc to her side.  Petyr Baelish glanced at her smile and suppressed the shudder traveling upward from his gut.  He tucked deep his desire, deep he hid any ache for a throne of blood.

A crown of power.

Rickon Stark’s eyes snapped open, wide with horror, his neck twisting around to see the undead encircling them.  They froze on the dead queen and the boy tried to hurl from the horse. Littlefinger held him tight against his chest.

“Have we reached an understanding, my queen?” 

With a flick of her sword, they crept forward as one, quiet, hands at their sides, eyes hungry, brimming with blue-hot hate.

The boy cried out for his mother. 

The name echoed against the hills until, with a gasp, silence.     

 

 ***********************************************************************

 

 

Jaime blinked open his eyes.

They felt rimmed in needles of glass.

He blinked a few times and focused on Brienne.  Her weight dipped slightly the edge of the bed.

“Jaime,” she murmured, sniffing.

Her eyes and nose, red and swollen, her face a mottled map of grief.  A green, sallow hue colored her sagging cheeks.

Jaime reached for her broad hand and stroked the blunt fingers beneath his hand.  He squeezed them and brought their tips to his mouth.

“Wench-,”

Brienne shook her head and turned to the window.  Jaime followed her gaze.

Tyrion stood, quiet, peering through the thick glass to the godswood.

“What are you doing here?” Jaime croaked.  His throat felt raw, sore, he sure from screaming.  He tried to push himself up from his pillows.

Brienne pushed him back down, her voice soft, her hands gentle.

“Jaime, no.  You must rest.  And Lord Tyrion wishes to speak with you.”

“Wishes?  He wishes to speak with me? Fuck his wishes!”  He started to rise once more.  Brienne pinned him to the bed, one strong hand now pressed firm against his sternum.  “I wish Father and Mother alive!  I wish Jon Snow alive!  I wish my kinslaying brother dead!  What of _my_ wishes?”  Jaime whipped his head to Tyrion’s back.  “Why aren’t you consoling your little whore of a queen?”

At that, Tyrion turned to face him.  Black and green fire glimmered from his eyes.

“You are angry, Jaime, at me and it is deserved, after some fashion.  But you will _not_ insult the woman, the _queen,_ that pardoned you for the sin of murdering her father.”

“And you murdered our own!”

“Yes.  And I would do it again, if the circumstances the same.  But how I wish, every gods damned day that they were different.”

“Jaime, please.”  Jaime turned to face Brienne.  “Please.   _I_ am asking you.  Just listen to what your brother has to say.”

“What he has to say is more lies, more cunning, clever words, setting more traps.  You don’t know him, Brienne!”

“No.  But I know _you_.  And I know that you still love him.”

Jaime gaped at her in wide-eyed silence.

“As he still loves you.”

“What part of he killed our father did you not hear or understand?”

“Jaime,” Brienne said, uncurling and standing from the bed.  “ _Listen_  to him.”  She nodded to Tyrion.  “I’ll be right outside, in the hall, my Lord.”  With a fierce gaze, she turned and left the room, the door a soft click as it closed.

Tyrion turned full to face Jaime, his back to the window.  He nodded, once, to the door.  “Loving that woman is the wisest thing you have ever done.”

“Don’t, you kinslaying-,”

“I am _trying_ to give you a compliment.”

“Fuck your compliments!  I want my father back, alive, healthy, whole, without a damned quarrel in his chest!”

“I can’t give back our father, Jaime.  Not after what he did to me, tried to do to me.  But perhaps together we can give this world some justice.”

“If there was any justice, we would both be dead.”

“True.  But we are not.  And I said _justic_ e, not mercy.”

Jaime stared at him, waiting.

“Littlefinger has Rickon Stark.”  Jaime sat up now.

“How do you know?”

“They are both missing and not among the dead.”

“Their wolves?”

“Still groggy, gaunt, unable to hunt. Baelish nearly killed them with that vile poison.”

“How many dead?”

Tyrion shook his head.  “Many.  Most of the Vale soldiers, anyone deemed to have participated in the Slaughter of the Smallfolk.”  Tyrion looked at his brother, both eyes sharp.  “My queen does not jape, not about life nor death.  She gave what she promised her enemies: Fire and blood.”

Jaime sneered at him, plopping down against his pillow.  “And now the blood of Jon Snow is on her dainty hands.”

“No,” Tyrion said, a step closer from the window.  “ _That_ hand was of Aegon Targaryen, not Danaerys.”

“And whose hand wrote our arrest warrant, hmmm, clever brother?  Whose?”

“Mine, of course.  I had to protect you and the Starks.”

“You had to _protect_ me?”  Jaime barked a sharp laugh.  “You _protected_ me by throwing me in a cell?”

“Yes.  It was the only way to ensure your safety, Jaime.  We knew, from Varys, that Littlefinger made a secret alliance with Prince Aegon.”

Jaime looked at Tyrion, shaking his head.  Tyrion walked to the pitcher of ale, poured two cups and waddled to the side of the bed.  He handed the mug to Jaime, meeting his eyes. 

“I should smash this in your face, Tyrion.”

“Of course you should.  But it would be a shame.  These damn northerners no nothing of good wine.  But ale?”  He took a deep swallow.  A belch soon followed.  “ _Tha_ t, they know well.”

Jaime snatched the mug from his brother’s stubby fingers and took a swig.  Tyrion sat on the bed, his legs dangling off the end.

“It is true, Jaime.  He made an alliance.  As soon as I learned of it, I knew it would be your deaths.  So I issued the warrant, gambling that Baelish would follow my orders.  And he did.”  Tyrion raised his cup in a mocking salute.

“How did you know your gamble would pay?”

“Littlefinger trusts no one.  But he _alway_ s trusts Littlefinger.  So he trusted what he saw of me, what I _allowed_ him to glimpse on the Small Council.  For what does he know of this boy Aegon Targaryen, this dragon queen Danaerys?  She rules now and Aegon the Unknown may rule after her but what did he know of them, _truly_?  Baelish knows very well the changes wrought by the spin of the wheel.  It was often his little hand spinning.  But there were too many unknowns for his liking so he went with the only known he could see clearly.   _Me_.”  Tyrion smiled, though it empty of joy.  “Besides, Danaerys is a queen, a _woman_.  And like any peddler of flesh, he hates women, believing them all soft and stupid.  Yet a woman will be his undoing, Jaime.”  Tyrion took another great, belching swallow of ale.  “I feel it in the marrow of my stunted bones.”

“So who hasn’t he betrayed?  You use his betrayals to explain your own?”

Tyrion huffed a laugh.  “Yes, Jaime, if you would call it that.  He betrayed Ned to Cersei.  He betrayed Cersei to the Boltons.  He betrayed Jon and Lysa Arryn and all of Westeros, believing chaos made him stronger, brought greater opportunity.  And now he betrays the Starks to the Targaryens.  It only a matter of time before he tore the Dragons apart and finally, his dark dream realized.  The Iron Throne beneath him, the Conqueror’s Crown slipping on that small head.  Varys’ reports proved _my_ known, Jaime.”  Tyrion gulped once more and jumped from the bed, returning to the tray to refill his cup.  “Littlefinger is **NEVER** to be trusted.   _Especially_ when on your side. So I did what I could to protect you.”  With a full mug, he sat once more on the bed.  “But I erred, as did he.  I knew him sly, cunning, a deceiver of the first order.”  Tyrion swirled his mug, forgetting it not wine.  “But I did not believe him ruthless enough to slaughter the small folk.  But I should have known, I should have guessed his mind.  Baelish knew he could never hold the north with gold and promises.  So he gave them quarrels and swords, believing he would be rewarded for his loyalty to the Dragon Queen.  And he was.”  Tyrion took another sip then blinked, peering at the mug.  He set it down on the chest next to Jaime’s brimming cup.  “Yes, Baelish was rewarded.  Just not in the way he imagined.  And because he did not know my queen, could not imagine a queen that was not Cersei, he did not know Danaerys has a great heart for the innocent.”

“ _Innocent_?” Anger once more salted Jaime’s words.  “Yet your tender-hearted queen makes terms with the Sandsnakes of Dorne, with the great viper Ellaria Sand! She is no _innocent_!  She poisoned your _niec_ e, Tyrion!  My _daughter_!”

“Yes, she did.”  Tyrion started to reach for his mug then stopped, shaking his overlarge head.  “Though it disgusts me to treat with them, they prove strategically important to hold the peace.  We need their alliance, Jaime.”

“So.  All these wise answers for Littlefinger’s plots and schemes!  What answers for your own betrayal?”  Tyrion regarded his brother, sadness in his mismatched eyes. 

He blinked and answered, “None that you are ready to believe.”

“Is that all you can say?  She died in my arms!”   _Like Jon.  Like Weasel._

“That was _Father’s_ debt she paid, Jaime.  I _loved_ gentle Myrcella and I am sorry you paid, too.  And what of Olenna, hmm, what of her losses?  What of the Tyrell legacy?  Margery, Mace, Loras, Tommen, all dead because of Cersei and her rank, grasping stupidity.  Do you know, we still find blackened bones as far as Rosby from when bodies were blasted from the Sept?  You are a soldier and have no stomach for diplomacy.  But I do.  Jaime, _please_.”  Tyrion stood close to him now and Jaime could see what the years and choices had done to him. Never blessed with the legendary Lannister beauty, his body and head misshapen and grotesque, yet hiding a mind of superb subtlety.    
But his eyes, always lively and their strangeness, his best feature.  Now, they seemed heavy not only with ale but with the world, one dark eye holding justice, the other, mercy.

“Please.  I know with all that has happened, I have no right, _no right_ , to ask this of you.  But, please.  Trust me.  One day, you will understand.  Not now, but one day, why I did what I did.  I did what was needed to stop the bloodletting.”  Tyrion turned from him, then.  “Though, clearly, I did not stop it this day.”

 _Jon is.._. _And now I understand those strange, chilling flashes of Rhaegar._ “So he is still… dead?”

Tyrion nodded, his eyes slipping to the floor.  “Unless there is a red priestess you forgot to mention?”  Jaime shook his head.  Tyrion once more perched on the edge of the bed.

“How are the Starks, Danaerys?”

“The Starks have taken his body to the weirwood tree though he will be burned in the yard.  They will store his ashes in the crypt.”  Tyrion swallowed.  “Next to his mother.”

“And Danaerys?”

Tyrion could only shake his head.  “She is the last,” he answered, a near whisper.

“And I killed Aegon Targaryen.  Rhaegar’s son.”

“Only to _save_ Rhaegar’s other son.”

“I deserve to be thrown on the pyre, too.”

“And leave that remarkable woman to die of a broken heart? No.  You don’t.  It grieves my queen, deeply, but she knew it only a matter of time.  The dragonsickness had taken hold in that one.” 

Jaime said nothing.

“We left Ser Barristan behind, to hold the city for the queen.”  Tyrion gave a light chuckle.  “The people still love and honor the old man.”  He paused, swallowing again.  “It will tear him apart, this news.  But even he feared what Aegon would become.”  Tyrion fixed Jaime with a sharp gaze.  “He even wondered, alone, only to me, if one day he would do what you did, if he _could_ do as you had done.”

Shock furrowed Jaime’s brows.  “Of course, he could.  But he would _never_.”

Tyrion smiled, full of rue.  “No, you misunderstand Ser Barristan, Jaime.  He does not question his honor.  He questions his _courage_.”

Jaime blinked and said nothing.  He dropped his eyes to stare at the fur covering his long legs.

Tyrion jumped from the bed, peering at Jaime.  “How are you, brother?”

Jaime could only shake his head.  “It all happened so fast.  So much…”  He closed his eyes seeing dark blood pooling across Jon’s tunic.  Tears pricked and burned his eyelids. 

“I know,” Tyrion sighed.  With a low “Fuck it,” he reached for the ale and took a healthy swallow, setting it down, pushing it away.  “I liked him.  Almost from the start.  I promised Danaerys she would like him, too.  He was like her, in so many ways.”  Tyrion turned his head to the window.  “He was beautiful.  Kind.  Sad.  And he… _cared_.  The boy cared.  Deeply.”

“So do you,” Jaime said.  Tyrion kept his gaze trained on the white world beyond the glass.  

 _And I know that you still love him._  

Tyrion turned, slipped his eyes to Jaime, searching for the jape.

He ducked his head when he saw none, clearing his throat.  “Well, Maester Tarly gave Danaerys something to sleep.  It should be wearing off soon.”  Tyrion nodded once to Jaime and waddled to the door.  Reaching up, he twisted the handle, the door slivering with a whine.

“You said one day, it will make sense, why you did what you did.”  Tyrion stopped, turning to Jaime before stepping through the crack.  “But he was our father, Tyrion.  It will never make sense.  Not to me.”

“Yes,” Tyrion answered.  “I know.  But that is not what I mean.”  He switched his gaze to something beyond the door, warmth lighting his smile.  “Ah.  The Lady Brienne.  We are finished with our little _chat_ , both of us still alive.  My brother will see you now.”

No sooner had she stepped through the door, curling into Jaime’s side did three deep bells toll throughout the keep.  

"It is time, my love," she murmured, the words thick.  Jaime glanced down, saw her swallow a lump in the long column of her neck.  Her blue eyes glistened with brimming tears.  "They light his pyre soon."

 

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

 

A pale, gray dusk settled on the yard.

A circle of bright torches pushed away the gloom.

Jaime swallowed, staring at the two pyres raised in the center.

On one lay Aegon Targaryen, his head resettled on his neck. Painted stones, the irises a deep purple, covered his eyes. Dressed in his House colors of black and crimson, his hands crossed over his heart. His long silver hair lay on his shoulders, a few thin plaits scattered between the loose strands.

_So much like Rhaegar he looks._

Jaime felt his eyes slipping to the coarse black threads ringing his white neck and flipped his watering eyes to Jon Snow.

His was a cold, pale mask, the scars of the last betrayal still carved on his face. Around their brother, cousin, king, the Starks arranged the bright leaves of the heart tree, already turning Jon’s pyre to red flame. His hands clasped the hilt of Longclaw, his black cape covering the logs like a tent. Jaime looked at Jon, remembering when they first met at Winterfell all those long years ago, seeing the sullen, long-faced boy peering out from the shadows at the back of a room. He barely registered then, beyond being Ned's bastard.  He remembered their meeting in Jaime's cell, all the times he ridiculed the boy, despite, grudgingly, seeing something kingly in the boy's honor and carriage.  Jaime smiled through his tears. It was Jon's command that finally, _finally_ , sent him to Brienne's side.  Jaime dropped his smile, feeling suddenly old and tired beyond bearing.   _And now, he is gone._

Jaime glanced around, saw the ashen, tear-streaked faces of the Tarlys, Ser Davos, the Reeds, the gripped hands and bowed heads of Addam and Nyo. Bran peered out from Hodor’s arms, saying no words only shaking his head. Jaime turned to the right. Brienne stood tall in her blue armor, her face calm though it looked bruised from grieving. He did not hear her join the circle, but she stood next to him, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Jaime reached for her with his missing hand.

“Little Wolf-,”

Arya turned, fell into his arms, crying Jon’s name into his chest.

Gendry stood at Arya’s side, threading his long fingers through her hair.

After a time, she lifted her head from Jaime’s breastplate to bury it again in Gendry’s stout shoulder.

On Brienne’s other side, Sansa stared at the pyre. She stood tall and remote, a lonely mountain of smoked blue and gray, fire crowning her head, her long fingers folded and joined in their gray gloves. She held herself tight, like a queen, a daughter of the fiercest winter though her eyes and slender nose rimmed in bright red. Jaime moved around Brienne to reach for her, to hold her as he did Arya. Without turning to face him, she shrugged off his hand.  

"He has Rickon. I know it."

"Sansa-,"

"No."  Her words were soft, a whisper of steel pulled free.  "Leave him to me."  She walked beyond Jaime, folding herself into the deep shadows.  Jaime stared at Sansa for a moment before returning to Brienne. He noted Varys and his long, deep sleeves, the brown-skinned beauty that stood beside Danaerys on the dais. The Unsullied and Dothraki stood also in the yard.

“Where is Danaerys? Will she not come?”

Overhead, a dragon screeched in answer.

Everyone, except a waddling figure in Lannister red edged in black, nearly flattened their bodies to the ground.

Jaime’s eyes shot up and he saw the great green beast wheeling in the dull sky, what left of the sun turning his bronze scales to beaten gold.

He circled three times then landed in a crouch, the dust and dirt and snow of the yard rising up to meet it. Screeching right then left, all heard the message to retreat further from the dragon and his queen.

He was terror and beauty in living form.

Now Jaime could see better how he glowed like green fire, a multitude of greens, dark pine, pale moss, burnished jade. His teeth and claws were black as dragonglass, gleaming as if made from the very stuff. His bronze eyes, burnt with golden, liquid fire, and Jaime could feel their heat brush across his face when he glanced at him and Brienne.

Brienne reached out and entwined his fingers with hers, never taking her eyes from the beast.

Danaerys climbed down from his back, hooking her hands and feet in horns along the rippling spine. Her silver hair, hidden beneath a black helm though a braid flowed down her back. She was dressed in a gleaming coat, long to her knees, the black fur cut to skim close to her lithe body. To Jaime’s wonder, the beast nuzzled his great snout in the palm of her hand as she whispered in his ear. He brought his head forward, sniffing at the pyres, lingering, for a moment over Jon’s. Raising his head, he screeched once more, curling his tail around last Targaryen.

Then with a nod, Tyrion came to his queen, shrunken even more at her side. Jaime saw from the trembles of her chin, her eyes, the girl fought to stay strong.  He felt the flame of his anger dampen, it replaced, some, with the brutal, bitter choices they must all make. Danaerys faced the crowd.

“People of Winterfell,” her voice rang out, “people of the north. It was the custom of our House, of old Valyria, to burn a fallen rider with his dragon’s flame.” She paused to strengthen her voice. “Your king, Jon Snow, now revealed as Jahaerys Targaryen, never rode my child, Rhaegal, but he is Rhaegar’s son, as was the reclaimed Aegon Targaryen, so named for my great sire, the Conqueror, all my House, now gone.” Danaeyrs stared at the pyres, her face breaking, a rictus of grief, before settling with calming breaths.

A small hand crept into her own.

She held it, as Jaime held Brienne’s.

“May they find peace,” she said at last, “reborn, in the halls of our people.”

She turned, staring Rhaegal in a bronze eye, never letting her hand slip from Tyrion’s. Then she turned her gaze to the pyres.

“Dracarys,” she whispered.

With a great breath, the dragon blew, a living stream of orange and yellow flame traced with veins of rich green.

For a long, silent moment they watched the bodies burn.

Clothes, hair, flesh, bone.

Blood.

Burnt to black ash in the green-tinged fire.

Jaime told himself it only a trick of the flames, a falling log, a wishful heart.

Jaime saw it again.

Something, _something_ , curling up from the heart of the green fire, like a newborn babe.

From out of the flames it came, without cover, his dark hair crisped away, as smooth and strong as the burning blade in his fist.

Rhaegal raised his head and roared.

Danaerys screamed, breaking free from Tyrion's hand and ran to the flaming form.

She caught Jon as he stumbled to the ground, her coat, her hands on fire though her face wet with tears.

Somewhere, deep in the godswood, a dragon and a lone wolf lifted their voice in song.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> *All comments, concerns, critiques are appreciated since this is the only way the story will improve! Thank you for reading my first venture into fan fiction: it is really fun to write! If you like where this is going, bear with me, there is much more to come.


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